LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

ESTATE  OF 
HUBERT   ORRISS 


■-^-    *  ; 


;V'' 


■i'      v' 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 


TOM   BPtOWN   AT   OXFOED. 


BY  THE   AUTHOR   OF 

"TOM   BROWN'S  SCHOOL  DAYS." 


NEW  EDITION. 
WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  SYDNEY  P.  HALL. 


fonbon- : 
MACMILLAN   AND   CO. 

1883. 


[The  Eight  of  Translation  and  Reproduction  is  Eescrveil] 


LIBRARY 
//^^  O  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


H2  r^)i 


TO 

THE  REV.  F.  D.  MAUEICE. 

IN    MEMORY    OP    FOURTEEN    YEAKS'    FELLOW    WORK, 

AVO    IN    TESTIMONY    OK 

tVEK    INCREASING    AFFECTION    AND    GRATITCOK 

THIS    VOLUME    IS    DEUIGATEP 

BY 

THE  AUTHOR, 


PREFACE. 


Prefaces  written  to  explain  tlie  objects  or  meaning  of  a 
book,  or  to  make  any  appeal,  ad  misericordiam  or  other,  in  its 
favour,  are,  in  my  opinion,  nuisances.  Any  book  worth 
reading  Avill  explain  its  own  objects  a  ad  meaning,  and  the 
more  it  is  criticised  and  turned  inside  out,  the  better  for  it 
and  its  author.  Of  all  books,  too,  it  seems  to  me  that  novels 
require  prefaces  least — at  any  rate,  on  their  first  appearance. 
Notwithstanding  which  belief,  I  must  ask  readers  for  three 
minutes'  patience  before  they  make  trial  of  this  book. 

The  natural  pleasure  which  I  felt  at  the  unlooked-for 
popularity  of  the  first  part  of  the  present  story,  was  much 
lessened  by  the  pertinacity  with  which  many  persons,  acquaint- 
ance as  well  as  strangers,  would  insist  (both  in  public  and 
private)  on  identifying  the  hero  and  the  author.  On  the 
appearance  of  the  first  few  numbers  of  the  present  continua- 
tion in  Macmillan' s  Magazine,  the  same  thing  occurred,  and 
in  fact,  reached  such  a  pitch,  as  to  lead  me  to  make  some 
changes  in  the  story.  Sensitiveness  on  such  a  point  may 
seem  folly,  but  if  readers  had  felt  the  sort  of  loathing  a.nd 


Viii  PREFACE. 

disgust  which  one  feels  at  the  notion  of  painting  a  favourable 
likeness  of  oneself  in  a  work  of  fiction,  they  would  not  wonder 
at  it.  So,  now  that  this  book  is  finished,  and  Tom  Brown,  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  is  done  with  for  ever,  I  must  take  this 
my  first  and  last  chance  of  saying,  that  he  is  not  I,  cither  as 
boy  or  man — in  fact,  not  to  beat  about  the  bush,  is  a  much 
braver,  and  nobler,  and  purer  fellow  than  I  ever  was. 

When  I  first  resolved  to  write  the  book,  I  tried  to  realize 
to  myself  what  the  commonest  type  of  English  boy  of  the 
upper  middle  class  was,  so  far  as  my  experience  went ;  and  to 
that  type  I  have  throughout  adhered,  trying  simply  to  give  a 
good  specimen  of  the  genus.  I  certainly  have  placed  him  in 
the  country  and  scenes  which  I  know  best  myself,  for  the 
simple  reason,  that  I  knew  them  better  than  any  others,  and 
therefore  was  less  likely  to  blunder  in  writing  about  them. 

As  to  the  name,  which  has  been,  perhaps,  the  chief  "  cause 
of  ofience"  in  this  matter,  the  simple  facts  are,  that  I  chose 
the  name  "  Brown,"  because  it  stood  first  in  the  trio  of  "  Brown, 
Jones,  and  Eobinson,"  which  has  become  a  sort  of  synonym 
for  the  middle  classes  of  Great  Britain.  It  happens  that  my 
own  name  and  that  of  Brown  have  no  single  letter  in  common. 
As  to  the  Christian  name  of  "  Tom,"  having  chosen  Brown,  I 
could  hardly  help  taking  it  as  the  prefix.  The  two  names 
have  gone  together  in  England  for  two  hundred  years,  and 
the  joint  name  has  not  enjoyed  much  of  a  reputation  for 
respectability.  This  suited  me  exactly.  I  wanted  the  com- 
monest  name  I  could  get,  and  did  not  want  any  name  which 
had  the  least  heroic,  or  aristocratic,  or  even  respectable  savour 
about  it.  Therefore  I  had  a  natural  leaning  to  the  combina- 
b"on  which  T  found  ready  to  my  hand.     Moreover,  I  believed 


PREFACE.  IX 

"Tom"  to  be  a  more  specially  English  name  than  Jolin,  the 
only  other  as  to  which  I  felt  the  least  doubt.  Whether  it  be 
that  Thomas  a  Beckett  was  for  so  long  the  favourite  English 
saint,  or  from  whatever  other  cause,  it  certainly  seems  to  be 
the  fact,  that  the  name  "Thomas"  is  much  commoner  in 
England  than  in  any  other  country.  The  words  "  tom-fool," 
"  tom-boy,"  &c.  though,  perhaps,  not  complimentary  to  the 
"  Toms  "  of  England,  certainly  show  how  large  a  family  they 
must  have  been.  These  reasons  decided  me  to  keep  the 
Christian  name  which  had  been  always  associated  with 
"  Brown;"  and  I  own,  that  the  fact  that  it  happened  to  be 
my  own,  never  occurred  to  me  as  an  objection,  till  the  mischief 
was  done,  past  recall. 

I  have  only,  then,  to  say,  that  neither  is  the  hero  a  portrait 
of  myseK,  nor  is  there  any  other  portrait  in  either  of  the 
books,  except  in  the  case  of  Dr.  Arnold,  where  the  true  name 
is  given.  My  deep  feeling  of  gratitude  to  mm,  ana  reverence 
for  his  memory,  emboldened  me  to  risk  the  attempt  at  a  por- 
trait in  his  case,  so  far  as  the  character  was  necessary  for  the 
work.  With  these  remarks,  I  leave  this  volume  in  the 
hands  of  readers. 

T.  UUGHES. 


Lincoln's  Inn, 

Octobv,,  18G1. 


CONTENTS. 

CllAPTKR  P»6* 

INTRODUCTORY      .  1 

I. — ST.  Ambrose's  collegb 2 

II. — A   row   on   THE   RIVER '^■^ 

III. — A    BREAKFAST   AT   DRYSDALE'S 21 

IV. — THE    ST    AMBROSE    BOAT-CLUB:     ITS    MINlsrBV    AND 

THEIR    BUDGET 32 

V. — HARDY,    THE   SERVITOR 41 

"VI.— HOW   DRYSDALE    AND    BLAKE    WENT   FISH1.NG        .       .  60 

VII. — AN   EXPLOSION 65 

VIII. — hardy's   HISTORY 71 

IX. — "A   BROWN   bait". 85 

X. — SUMMER  TERM 92 

XI. — MUSCULAR   CHRISTIANITY 107 

XI I. — THE   captain's    NOTIONS 124 

XIII.— THE   FIRST   BUMP ...  138 

XIV. — A   CHANGE    IN    THE   CREW,  AND    WHAT    CAMK    OF    IT  150 

XV. — A   STORM    BREWS   AND   BREAKS 161 

XA''I. — THE   STORM    RAGES 1"2 

XVII. — NEW   GROUND iS2 

XVIII.  — ENGLEBOURN   VILLAGE 191 

XIX.  — A   PROMISE   OF  FAIRER  WEATHER 206 

XX. — THE    RECONCILIATION 218 

XXI.— CAPTAIN    HARDY   ENTERTAINED    BY   ST.  AMBROSE     .  222 

XXII. — DEPARTURES    EXPECTED   AND    UNEXPECTED     ...  231 

XXIII. — THE    ENGLEBOURN    CONSTABLE 243 

XXIV. — THE   SCHOOLS 255 

XXV.  — COMMEMORATION 267 

XXVI.  —THE    LONG   WALK    IN   CHRISTCHUECH    MEADOWS  .       .  278 

XXVII,  — LE'^TURING   A    LIONESS 293 

XXV'III        THE    END   OF   THE    FRKsIIMA.n'S   YEaK 304 


Xtl  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAOI! 

XXIX, — THE    LONG   VACATION    LETTER-BAQ 314 

XXX. — AMUSEMENTS  AT   BARTON   MANOR     .     • 328 

XXXI. — BEHINB   THE   SCENES 334 

XXXII.— A  CRISIS 342 

XXXIII. — BROWN   PATRONUS 355 

XXXIV.— MHAEN  AFAN 373 

XXXV.— SECOND   YEAR 386 

XXXVI  — THE   RIVER   SIDE 398 

XXXVII. — THE   NIGHT   WATCH 407 

XXXVIII. — MARY   IN   MAYFAIR 417 

XXXIX. — WHAT   CAME   OF   THE   NIGHT   WATCH 426 

XL. — HUE  AND   CRY 437 

XLI. — THE   LIEUTENANTS   SENTIMENTS   AND   PROBLEMS      .  447 

XLII. — THIRD    YEAR 458 

XLI  1 1. — AFTERNOON   VISITORS     . 470 

XLIV. — THE   INTERCSITED    LETTER-BAG 480 

XLV. — MA.STER's   TERM 495 

XLVI. — FROM    INDIA   TO    ENGLEBOUR.V 503 

XLVIl. — THE   WEDDING-DAY 611 

^LVlil. — THE   BEGINNING    OF   THE    END 520 

A  LI. K.— THE  END 529 

L  •— THE  posTscmi'i G38 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 


Xii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAtJK 

XXIX. — THE    LONG   VACATION    LETTER-BAG 314 

XXX. — AMUSEMENTS  AT   BARTON    MANOR     .     ■ 328 

XXXI.— BEHIND  THE  SCENES .334 

XXXII.— A  CRISIS 342 

XXXIII. — BBuWN   PATRONUS 355 

XXXIV.— MHAEN  AFAN 373 

XXXV.— SECOND   YEAR 386 

XXXVI —THE   RIVER   SIDE 398 

XXXVII. — THE  NIGHT   WATCH 407 

XXXVIII. — MARY   IN   MAYFAIR 417 

XXXIX. — WHAT   CAME   OF   THE   NIGHT   WATCH 426 

XL. — HUE   AND   CRY 437 

XLI. — THE   LIEUTENANTS   SENTIMENTS   AND    PROBLEMS      .  447 

XLII.— THIRD   YEAR 458 

XLI  1 1. — AFTERNOON   VISITORS     .      , 470 

XLIV. — THE   INTERCEITED    LETTER-BAG 480 

XLV. — MA.STER's  TERM 495 

XLVI. — FROM    INDIA   TO   ENGLEBOURN 503 

XLVIL — THE   WEDDING-DAY 511 

XLV  111. — ^TUE   BEGINNING    OF   THE    END 520 

A  LI. K.— THE   END 529 

L  —THE   POBTSCii:}'! G3fi 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 


TOM  mom  AT  OXFORD. 


INTEODUCTOKY. 

In  the  Michaelmas  term  after  leaving  school,  Tom  Bro-\ra 
received  a  summons  from  the  authorities,  and  went  up  to 
matriculate  at  St.  Ambrose's  College,  Oxford.  lie  presented 
himself  at  the  college  one  afternoon,  and  was  examined  by 
one  of  the  tutors,  avIio  carried  him,  and  several  other  youths 
in  like  predicament,  up  to  the  Senate  House  the  next  morn- 
ing. Here  they  went  through  the  usual  forms  cf  subscribing 
to  the  Articles,  and  otherwise  testifying  their  loyalty  to  the 
established  order  of  things,  without  much  thought  perhaps, 
but  in  very  good  faith  neA'ertheless.  Having  completed  the 
ceremony,  by  paying  his  fees,  our  hero  hurried  back  home, 
without  making  any  stay  in  Oxford.  He  had  often  passed 
through  it,  so  that  the  city  had  not  the  charm  of  novelty  for 
him,  and  he  was  anxious  to  get  home  ;  where,  as  he  had 
never  spent  an  autumn  away  from  school  till  now,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  was  having  his  fill  of  hunting  and 
shooting. 

He  had  left  school  in  June,  and  did  not  go  up  to  reside  at 
Oxford  till  the  end  of  the  following  January.  Seven  good 
months  ;  during  a  part  of  which  he  had  indeed  read  for  four 
hours  or  so  a  week  with  the  curate  of  the  parish,  but  the 
residue  had  been  exclusively  devoted  to  cricket  and  field 
sports.  Kow,  admirable  as  these  institutions  are,  and  bene- 
ficial as  is  their  influence  on  the  youth  of  Britain,  it  is  possible 
for  a  youngster  to  get  too  much  of  them.  So  it  had  fallen 
out  with  our  hero.  He  was  a  better  horseman  and  shot,  but 
the  total  relaxation  of  all  the  healthy  discipline  of  school, 
the  regular  hours  and  regular  work  to  which  he  had  been  used 
for  so  many  years,  had  certainly  thrown  him  back  in  other 

B 


2  TOM   BKOWIT  AT   OXFORD. 

ways.  The  wliole  man  had  not  grown  ;  so  that  we  mnst  nnt 
Vjo  surprised  to  find  him  quite  as  boyish,  now  that  we  fall 
in  with  him  again,  marching  down  to  St.  Ambrose's  with  a 
porter  wheeling  his  luggage  after  him  on  a  truck,  as  when  we 
left  him  at  the  end  of  his  school  career. 

Tom  was  in  truth  beginning  to  feel  that  it  was  high  time 
for  him  to  be  getting  to  regular  work  again  of  some  sort.  A 
landing  place  is  a  famous  thing,  but  it  is  only  enjoyable  for 
a  time  by  any  mortal  who  deserves  one  at  all.  So  it  was 
with  a  feeling  of  unmixed  pleasure  that  he  turned  in  at  the 
St.  Ambrose  gates,  and  inquired  of  the  porter  what  rooms  had 
been  allotted  to  him  within  those  venerable  walls. 

"While  the  porter  consulted  Ins  list,  the  great  college  sun- 
dial, over  the  lodge,  which  had  lately  been  renovated,  caught 
Tom's  eye.  The  motto  underneath,  "  Pereuut  et  imputantur," 
stood  out,  pi'oud  of  its  new  gilding,  in  the  bright  afternoon 
sun  of  a  frosty  January  day  :  wliich  motto  was  raising  sundry 
thoughts  in  his  brain,  when  the  porter  came  upon  the  right 
place  in  his  list,  and  directed  him  to  the  end  of  his  journey  : 
No.  6  staircase,  second  quadi-angle,  three-pair  back.  In  wliich 
new  home  we  shall  leave  him  to  instal  himself,  while  we 
endeavour  to  give  the  reader  some  notion  of  the  coUege 
itself. 


CHAPTER   1. 

ST.  Ambrose's  college, 

St.  Ambrose's  College  was  a  moderate-sized  one.  There 
might  have  been  some  seventy  or  eighty  undergraduates  in 
residence,  when  our  hero  appeared  there  as  a  freshman.  Of 
these,  unfortunately  for  the  college,  there  were  a  very  large 
proportion  of  gentlemen-commoners  ;  enough,  in  fact,  with 
the  other  men  whom  they  drew  round  them,  and  who  lived 
pretty  much  as  they  did,  to  form  the  largest  and  Icadiiig  set 
in  the  college.     So  the  college  was  decidedly  fast. 

The  chief  characteristic  of  this  set  was  the  most  reckless 
extravagance  of  every  kind.  London  wine  merchants  fur- 
nished thein  with  liqueurs  at  a  guinea  a  bottle,  and  wine  at 
five  guineas  a  dozen  ;  Oxford  and  London  tailors  vied  mth 
one  another  in  pro\ading  tliem  with  iniheard-of  quantities  of 
the  most  gorgeous  clothing.  They  drove  tandems  in  all  direc- 
tions, scattering  their  ample  allowances,  which  they  treated 
as  pocket  money,  about  roadside  inns  and  Oxford  taverns 
with  open  hand,   and   "going  tick  "  for  everything  which 


ST.   MIBROSES   COLLEGE.  3 

conlil  by  possibility  be  boolced.  Their  cigars  cost  two  guincfig 
a  pound  ;  their  furniture  was  tlie  best  that  could  be  bought ; 
pine-apples,  forced  fruit,  and  the  most  rare  preserves  figured 
at  their  wine  parties  ;  tliey  hunted,  rode  steeple-chases  by 
day,  played  billiards  until  the  gates  closed,  and  then  were 
ready  for  vingt-et-une,  unlimited  loo,  and  hot  drink  in  their 
own  rooms,  as  long  as  any  one  could  be  got  to  sit  \x])  and 
play. 

The  fast  set  then  swamped,  and  gave  the  tone  to,  the  college ; 
at  which  fact  no  persons  were  more  astonished  and  horrified 
than  the  authorities  of  St.  Ambrose. 

That  they  of  all  bodies  in  the  world  should  be  fairly  run 
away  with  by  a  set  of  reckless,  loose  young  sj^end thrifts,  was 
indeed  a  melancholj''  and  unprecedented  fact  ,;  for  the  body 
of  fellows  of  St.  Ambrose  was  as  distinguished  for  learning, 
morality,  and  respectability,  as  any  in  the  University.  The 
foundation  was  not  indeed  actually  an  open  one.  Oriel  at 
that  time  alone  enjoyed  this  distinction  ;  but  there  were  a 
large  number  of  open  fellowships,  and  the  iiicome  of  the 
college  was  large,  and  the  livings  belonging  to  it  numerous; 
so  that  the  best  men  from  other  colleges  were  constaiitly 
coming  in.  Some  of  these  of  a  former  generation  had  been 
eminently  successful  in  their  management  of  the  college. 
The  St.  Ambrose  undergraduates  at  one  time  had  carried  oil 
almost  all  the  university  prizes,  and  filled  the  class  lists,  while 
maintaining  at  the  same  time  the  highest  character  for  manli- 
ness and  gentlemanlj'  conduct.  This  had  lasted  long  enough 
to  establish  the  fame  of  the  colkige,  and  great  lords  and 
statesmen  had  sent  their  sons  there ;  head-masters  had 
struggled  to  get  the  names  of  their  best  pupils  on  the  books  : 
in  short,  every  one  who  had  a  son,  ward,  or  pupil,  v/hom  ho 
wanted  to  push  forward  in  the  world — who  was  meant  to  cut 
a  figure,  and  take  the  lead  among  men — left  no  stone  unturned 
to  get  him  into  St.  Ambrose's  ;  and  thought  the  first,  and  a 
very  long,  step  gained  when  he  had  succeeded. 

But  the  governing  bodies  of  colleges  are  always  on  the 
change,  and  in  the  course  of  things  men  of  other  ideas  came 
to  rule  at  St.  Ambrose — shrewd  men  of  the  vtrorld ;  men  of 
business  some  of  them,  with  good  ideas  of  making  tlie  most 
of  their  advantages ;  who  said,  "  Go  to  :  why  should  we  not 
make  the  public  pay  for  the  great  benefits  we  confer  on  them  ? 
Have  we  not  the  very  best  article  in  the  educational  market 
to  supply — almost  a  monopoly  of  it — and  shall  we  not  get 
the  highest  price  for  it  ? "  So  by  degrees  they  altered  many 
things  in  the  college.  In  the  first  place,  under  their  auspices, 
gentlemen-commoners  increased  and  multiplied ;  in  fact,  the 

B  2 


4  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXTORD. 

eldest  sons  of  baronets,  even  of  squires,  were  scarcely  admitted 
on  any  other  footing.  As  these  young  gentlemen  i:inid  double 
fees  to  the  college,  and  had  great  expectations  of  all  sorts,  it 
could  not  be  expected  that  they  should  be  subject  to  quite 
the  same  discipline  as  the  common  run  of  men,  who  would 
have  to  make  their  own  way  in  the  world.  So  the  rules  as 
to  attendance  at  chapel  and  lectures,  though  nominally  the 
same  for  them  as  for  commoners,  were  in  pi-actice  relaxed  in 
their  favour ;  and,  that  they  might  find  all  things  suitable  to 
perr.ons  in  their  position,  the  kitchen  and  buttery  were  worked 
up  to  a  high  state  of  perfection,  and  St.  Ambrose,  from  having 
been  one  of  the  most  reasonable,  had  come  to  be  about  tlio 
most  expensive  college  in  the  university,  Tliese  changes 
worked  as  their  promoters  probably  desired  that  they  should 
work,  and  the  colloge  was  full  of  rich  men,  and  commanded 
in  the  university  the  sort  of  respect  which  riches  bring  with 
them.  But  the  old  reputation,  though  still  strong  out  of 
doors,  was  beginning  sadly  to  wane  Avitliin  the  university 
precincts.  Fewer  and  fewer  of  the  St.  Ambrose  men  appeared 
in  the  class  lists,  or  amongst  the  prize-men.  They  no  longer 
led  the  debates  at  the  Union  ;  the  boat  lost  place  after  place 
on  the  river  ;  the  eleven  got  beaten  in  all  their  matches.  The 
inaugurators  of  these  changes  had  passed  away  in  their  turn, 
and  at  last  a  reaction  had  commenced.  The  fellows  recently 
elected,  and  who  were  in  residence  at  the  time  we  wi'ite  of, 
were  for  the  most  part  men  of  great  attainments,  all  of  them 
men  who  had  taken  very  high  honours.  The  electors  natu- 
rally enough  had  chosen  them  as  the  most  likely  persons  to 
restore,  as  tutors,  the  golden  days  of  the  college ;  and  they 
had  been  careful  in  the  selection  to  confine  themselves  to  vei-y 
quiet  and  studious  men,  such  as  were  likely  to  remain  up  at 
Oxford,  passing  over  men  of  more  popular  manners  and  active 
spirits,  who  would  be  sure  to  flit  soon  into  the  world,  and  bo 
of  little  more  service  to  St.  Ambrose, 

But  these  were  not  the  men  to  get  any  hold  on  the  fast  set 
who  were  now  in  the  ascendant.  It  was  not  in  the  nature  of 
tilings  that  they  should  understand  cacli  other  ;  in  fact,  they 
were  hopelessly  at  war,  and  the  college  was  getting  more  and 
more  out  of  gear  in  consequence. 

What  they  could  do,  however,  they  were  doing  ;  and  under 
their  fostering  care  were  growing  up  a  small  set,  including 
most  of  tlie  scholars,  who  were  likely,  as  far  as  they  were  con- 
cerned,  to  retrieve  the  college  character  in  the  schools.  But 
tliey  were  too  much  like  their  tutors,  men  who  did  little  else 
but  read.  They  ncitlier  Avished  for,  nor  were  likely  to  gain, 
the  slightest  influence  on  the  fast  set.    The  best  men  amoDgst 


ST.   AMBROSE'S   COLLEGE.  5 

tliem,  too,  were  diligent  readers  of  tlie  Tracts  for  the  Times, 
and  followers  of  the  able  leaders  of  the  High-church  party, 
which  was  then  a  growing  one  ;  and  this  led  them  also  to 
form  such  friendships  as  they  made  amongst  ou^-rollege 
mem  of  their  own  way  of  thinking — with  high  churchmen, 
rather  than  St.  Ambrose  men.  So  they  lived  very  much 
to  themselves,  and  scarcely  interfered  with  the  dominant 
party. 

Lastly,  there  was  the  boating  set,  which  was  beginning  to 
revive  in  the  college,  partly  from  the  natural  disgust  of  any 
body  of  young  Englishmen,  at  finding  themselves  distanced 
in  an  exercise  requiring  strength  and  pluck,  and  partly  from 
the  fact,  that  the  captain  for  the  time  being  was  one  of  the 
best  oars  in  the  University  boat,  and  also  a  deservedly  popular 
character.  He  was  now  in  his  third  year  of  residence,  had 
won  the  pair-oar  race,  and  had  pulled  seven  in  the  great 
yearly  match  with  Cambridge,  and  by  constant  hard  work  had 
managed  to  carry  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  up  to  the  fifth  place 
on  the  river.  He  will  be  introduced  to  you,  gentle  reader, 
when  the  proper  time  comes  ;  at  present,  we  are  only  con- 
cerned with  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  college,  that  you  may 
feel  more  or  less  at  home  in  it.  The  boating  set  was  not 
80  separate  or  marked  as  the  reading  set,  melting  on  one 
side  into,  and  keeping  up  more  or  less  connexion  with, 
the  fast  set,  and  also  commanding  a  sort  of  half  alle- 
giance from  most  of  the  men  who  belonged  to  neither  of 
the  other  sets.  The  minor  divisions,  of  which  of  course 
there  were  many,  need  not  be  particularized,  as  the  above 
general  classification  will  be  enough  for  the  purposes  of  this 
history. 

Our  hero,  on  leaving  school,  had  bound  himself  solemnly 
to  write  all  his  doings  and  thoughts  to  the  friend  whom  ho 
had  left  behiiid  him  :  distance  and  separation  were  to  make 
no  difference  whatever  in  their  friendship.  This  compact  had 
been  made  on  one  of  their  last  evenings  at  Eugby.  They 
were  sitting  together  in  the  six-form  room,  Tom  splicing  the 
handle  of  a  favourite  cricket  bat,  and  Arthur  reading  a  volume 
of  Raleigh's  works.  The  Doctor  had  lately  been  alluding  to 
the  "  History  of  the  World,"  and  had  excited  the  curiosity 
of  the  active-minded  amongst  his  pupils  about  the  great 
na^sigator,  statesman,  soldier,  author,  the  fine  gentleman.  So 
Ealeigh's  works  were  seized  on  by  various  voracious  young 
readto-s,  and  carried  out  of  the  school  library ;  and  Arthur 
was  now  deep  in  a  volume  of  the  "  Miscellanies,"  curled  up 
on  a  corner  of  the  sofa.  Presently,  Tom  heard  something 
between  a  groan  and  a  protest,  and,  looking  up,  demanded 


6  TOM   BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

explanations ;   in  answer  to  which,  Arthur,  in  a  voice  half 
furious  and  half  fearful,  read  out : — 

"And  be  sure  of  this,  thou  shalt  never  find  a  friend  in  thy 
young  years  whose  conditions  and  qualities  will  please  thee 
after  thou  comest  to  more  discretion  and  judgment;  and  then 
all  thou  givest  is  lost,  and  all  wherein  thou  shalt  trust  such  a 
one  will  be  discovered." 

"You  don't  mean  that's  Ealeigh's?" 
"  Yes — here  it  is,  in  his  first  letter  to  his  son." 
"  What  a  cold-blooded  old  Philistine,"  said  Tom. 
"But  it  can't  be  true,  do  you  think  1"  said  Arthur. 
And,  in  short,  after  some  personal  reflections  on  Sir  Walter, 
they  then  and  there  resolved  that,  so  far  as  they  were  con- 
cerned, it  was  not,  could  not,  and  should  not  be  true  ;  that 
they  would  remain  faithful,  the  same  to  each  other,  and  the 
greatest  friends  in  the  world,  though  I  know  not  what  separa- 
tions, trials,  and  catastrophes.  And  for  the  better  insuring 
tliis  result,  a  correspondence,  regular  as  the  recurring  months, 
was  to  be  maintained.  It  had  already  lasted  through  the 
long  vacation  and  up  to  Christmas  without  sensibly  dragging, 
tliough  Tom's  letters  had  been  something  of  the  shortest  in 
November,  when  he  had  had  lots  of  shooting,  and  two  days  a 
week  with  the  hounds.  Now,  however,  having  fairly  got  to 
Oxford,  he  determined  to  make  up  for  all  short-comings.  His 
first  letter  from  college,  taken  in  connexion  with  the  previous 
sketch  of  the  place,  will  probably  accomplish  the  work  of  in- 
troduction better  than  any  detailed  account  by  a  thii'd  pai'ty; 
a  ad  it  is  therefore  given  here  verbatim  : — 

"St.  Ambrose,  Oxford, 

"February,  184 — . 
"Mr  DEAR  Gbordie, 

"According  to  promise,  I  write  to  tell  you  how  I  get  on 
up  here,  and  what  sort  of  a  place  Oxford  is.  Of  course,  I 
don't  know  much  about  it  yet,  having  been  only  up  some  two 
weeks  ;  but  you  shall  have  my  first  impressions. 

"Well,  first  and  foremost,  it's  an  awfully  idle  place;  at  any 
rate,  for  us  IVeslimen.  Fancy  now.  I  am  in  twelve  lectures 
a  week  of  an  hour  each — Greek  Testament,  first  book  of 
Herodotus,  second  ^Eueid,  and  first  book  of  Euclid!  There's 
a  treat!  Two  hours  a  day;  all  over  by  twelve,  or  one  at 
latest;  and  no  extra  w'ork  at  all,  in  the  shape  of  copies  of 
varsps.  themes,  or  other  exercises. 

"I  think  sometimes  Tm  back  in  the  lower  fifth;  for  we 
don't  get  through  more  than  we  used  to  do  there ;  and  if  you 
were  to  hear  the  men  constnie,  it  would  make  your  hair  stand 
on.  end.     Where  on  earth  can  they  have  come  from  1  unless 


ST.   AMBEOSE'S   COLLEGE.  7 

tliey  blunder  on  purpose,  as  I  often  think.  Of  course,  I  never 
look  at  a  lecture  before  I  go  in,  I  know  it  all  nearly  by  heart, 
so  it  would  be  sheer  waste  of  time.  I  hope  I  sliall  take  to 
reading  something  or  other  by  myself;  but  you  know  I  never 
was  much  of  a  hand  at  sappiug,  and,  for  the  present,  the  light 
work  suits  me  weU  enough,  for  there's  plenty  to  see  and  learu 
about  in  this  place. 

"  We  keep  very  gentlemanly  hours.  Chapel  every  morning 
at  eight,  and  evening  at  seven.  You  must  attend  once  a  day, 
and  twice  on  Sundays — at  least,  that's  the  rule  of  our  college 
— and  be  in  gates  by  twelve  o'clock  at  night.  Besides  which, 
if  you're  a  decently  steady  fellow,  you  ought  to  dine  in  hall 
perhaps  four  days  a  week.  Hall  is  at  five  o'clock.  And  now 
you  have  the  sum  total.  All  the  rest  of  your  time  you  may 
just  do  what  you  like  with. 

"  So  much  for  our  work  and  hours.  jSTow  for  the  place, 
"Well,  it's  a  grand  old  place,  certainly;  and  I  dare  say,  if  a 
fellow  goes  straight  in  it,  and  gets  creditably  through  his  three 
years,  he  may  end  by  loving  it  as  much  as  we  do  the  old 
school-house  and  quadrangle  at  Rugby.  Our  college  is  a  fair 
specimen  :  a  venerable  old  front  of  crumbling  stone  fronting 
the  street,  into  which  two  or  three  other  colleges  look  also. 
Over  the  gateway  is  a  large  room,  where  the  college  examina- 
tions go  on,  when  there  are  any ;  and,  as  you  enter,  you  pass 
the  porter's  lodge,  where  resides  our  janitor,  a  bustling  little 
man,  with  a  pot  belly,  whose  business  it  is  to  put  down  the 
time  at  which  the  men  come  in  at  night,  and  to  keep  all  dis- 
commonsed  tradesmen,  stray  dogs,  and  bad  characters  generally, 
out  of  the  college. 

"The  large  quadrangle  into  which  you  come  first,  is  bigger 
than  ours  at  Rugby,  and  a  much  more  solemn  and  sleepy  sort 
of  a  place,  with  its  gables  and  old  mullioned  ^\indows.  One 
side  is  occupied  by  the  hall  and  chapel ;  the  principal's  house 
takes  up  half  another  side  ;  and  the  rest  is  divided  into  stair- 
cases, on  each  of  which  are  six  or  eight  sets  of  rooms,  iiJiabitod 
by  us  undergraduates,  with  here  and  there  a  tutor  or  fellow 
dropped  down  amongst  us  (in  the  first-floor  rooms,  of  course), 
not  exactly  to  keep  order,  but  to  act  as  a  sort  of  ballast.  This 
quadtangle  is  the  show  part  of  the  college,  and  is  generally 
respectable  and  quiet,  Avhich  is  a  good  deal  more  than  can  be 
said  for  the  inner  quadrangle,  which  you  get  at  through  a 
passage  leading  out  of  the  other.  The  rooms  ain't  half  so 
large  or  good  in  the  inner  quad  ;  and  here's  where  all  we  fresh- 
men live,  besides  a  lot  of  the  older  undergraduates  who  don't 
care  to  clxange  their  rooms.  Only  one  tutor  has  rooms  here , 
and  I  should  tliink,  if  he's  a  reading  man,  it  won't  be  ion^ 


8  TOM    BKOWN    AT   OXFOKD. 

bt-foro  he  clears  out ;  for  all  sorts  of  high  jinks  go  on  on  the 
gvass-plot,  and  the  row  on  tlie  staircases  is  often  as  bail,  ami 
not  half  so  respectable,  as  it  used  to  be  in  the  middle  passage 
ill  the  last  week  of  the  half-year. 

"My  rooms  are  what  they  call  garrets,  right  up  in  the  roof, 
with  a  commanding  view  of  college  tiles  and  chiniTiey  pots, 
and  of  houses  at  the  back.  No  end  of  cats,  both  college  Toma 
and  strangers,  haunt  the  neighbourhood,  and  I  am  rapidly 
learning  cat-talking  from  them  ;  but  I'm  not  going  to  stand  it 
— I  don't  want  to  know  cat-taik.  The  college  Toms  are  i)ro- 
tccted  by  the  statutes,  I  believe  ;  but  I'm  going  to  buy  an 
air-gun  for  the  benefit  of  the  strangers.  IVfy  rooms  are  jjleasant 
enough,  at  tlie  top  of  the  kitchen  staircase,  and  separated  from 
all  mankind  by  a  great,  iron-clampcul,  outer  door,  my  oak, 
which  I  sport  when  I  go  out  or  want  to  be  quiet ;  sitting- 
room  eighteen  by  twelve,  bed-room  twelve  by  eight,  and  a 
little  cu])board  for  the  scout. 

"  Ah,  Geordie,  the  scout  is  an  institution  !    Fancy  mo  waited 
upon  and  valeted  by  a  stout  party  in  black,  of  quiet,  gentle- 
manly manners,  like  the  benevolent  father  in  a  comedy.     He 
takes  the  deepest  interest  in  all  my  possessions  and  proceedings, 
and  is  evidently  used  to  good  society,  to  judge  by  the  amount 
of  crockery  and  glass,  wines,  liquors,  and  grocery,  which  ho 
thinks  indispensable  for  my  due  establishment,     lie  has  also 
been  good  enough  to  recommend  to  me  many  tradesmen  who 
fire  ready  to  supply  these  articles  in  any  quantities  ;   each  of 
whom  has  been  here  already  a  dozen  times,  cap  in  hand,  and 
vowing  that  it  is  i^uite  immaterial  when  I  pay — which  is  very 
kind  of  tlu'm  ;  but,  with  the  highest  respect  for  friend  l^erkins 
(my  scout)  and  his  obliging  friends,  I  shall  make  some  in- 
quiries before  "letting  in"  witli  any  of  them.     He  waits  ou 
me  in  hall,  where  we  go  in  full  fig  of  cap  and  gown  at  live, 
and  get  very  good  dinners,  and  cheap  enough.      It  is  rather 
a  line  old  room,  with  a  good,  arched,  black  oak  ceiling  and 
high  panelling,  hung  round  with  pictures  of  old  swells,  bishops 
and  lords  chielly,  who  have  endowed  the  college  in  some  way, 
or  at  least  have  fed  here  in  times  gone  by,  and  for  whom, 
"  caiterisque  benefactoribus  nostris,"  we  daily  give  thanks  ia 
n  long  I^itin  grace,  which  one  of  the  undergraduates  (I  think 
it  must  be)  goes  and  I'attles  out  at  the  end  of  the  high  table, 
and  then  comes  down  again  from  the  dais  to  his  own  place. 
Ko  one  feeds  at  the   liigh  table   except  the   dons  and   the 
geiitli'men-commoners,  who  are  undergraduates  in  velvet  caps 
and  silk  gowns.     Why  they  wear  these  instead  of  cloth  and 
serge  I  haven't  yet  made  out— I  believe  it  is  because  they  pay 
double  fees  ;  but  they  seem  uncommonly  wretched  up  at  tho 


ST.    AMBROSE  S   COLLEGE.  9 

high  table,  and  I  should  think  would  sooner  pay  double  to 
come  to  the  other  end  of  the  hall. 

"The  chapel  is  a  quaint  little  place,  about  the  size  of  the 
chancel  of  Lutterworth  Church.  It  just  holds  us  all  com- 
fortably. The  attendance  is  regular  enough,  but  I  don't  think 
the  men  care  about  it  a  bit  in  general.  Several  I  can  see 
bring  in  Euclids,  and  other  lecture  books,  and  the  service  is 
gone  througli  at  a  great  pace.  I  couldn't  think  at  first  wliy 
some  of  the  men  seemed  so  uncomfortable  and  stiff  about  tlie 
legs  at  the  morning  service,  but  I  hud  that  they  are  tlie 
hunting  set,  and  come  in  with  pea-coats  over  then-  pinks,  and 
trousers  over  their  leather  breeches  and  top-boots  ;  which 
accoimts  for  it.  There  are  a  few  others  who  seem  very  devout, 
and  bow  a  good  deal,  and  turn  towards  the  altar  at  diilerent 
parts  of  the  service.  These  are  of  the  Oxford  High-church 
school,  1  believe  ;  but  I  shall  soon  find  out  more  about  them. 
On  the  whole,  I  feel  less  at  home  at  present,  1  am  sorry  to 
89y,  in  the  chapel,  than  anywhere  else. 

"I  was  very  nearly  forgetting  a  great  institution  of  the 
college,  which  is  the  buttery-hatch,  just  opposite  the  hall- 
door.  Here  abides  the  fat  old  butler  (all  the  servants  at  St. 
Ambros(i's  are  portly),  and  serves  oxit  limited  bread,  butter, 
and  cheese,  and  unlimited  beer  brewed  by  himself,  for  an  hour 
in  the  morning,  at  noon,  and  again  at  supper-time.  Your 
scout  always  fetches  you  a  pint  or  so  on  each  occasion,  in  case 
you  should  want  it,  and  if  you  don't,  it  falls  to  him  ;  but  I 
can't  say  that  my  fellow  gets  much,  for  I  am  naturally  a  thirsty 
soul,  and  cannot  often  resist  the  malt  myself,  coming  up,  as  it 
does,  fresh  and  cool,  in  one  of  the  silver  tankards,  of  which 
we  seem  to  have  an  endless  supply. 

"  I  spent  a  day  or  two  in  the  first  week,  before  I  got  shake  a 
down  into  my  place  here,  in  going  round  and  seeing  the  other 
colleges,  and  finding  out  what  great  men  had  been  at  each 
(one  got  a  taste  for  that  sort  of  worlc  from  the  Doctor,  and 
I'd  nothing  else  to  do).  Well,  T  never  was  more  interested  : 
fancy  ferreting  out  AVyclilfe,  the  Black  Prince,  our  friend  Sir 
VV^alter  Kaleigh,  Pym,  Hampden,  Laud,  Ireton,  Butler,  and 
Addison,  in  one  afternoon.  I  walked  about  two  inches  taller 
in  my  trencher  cap  after  it.  Perhaps  I  may  be  going  to  make 
dear  friends  with  some  fellow  who  will  change  the  history  of 
England.  Why  shouldn't  1 1  There  must  have  been  freshmen 
once  who  were  chums  of  Wyclitfe  of  Queen's,  or  Kaleigh  of 
Oriel.  I  mooned  up  and  down  the  High-street,  staring  at  all 
tlie  young  faces  in  caps,  and  wondering  which  of  them  would 
turn  out  great  generals,  or  statesmen,  or  poets.  Some  of  them 
will,  of  course,  for  there  must  be  a  dozen  at  least,  I  should 


10  TOM  BKOWN  AT   OXFORD. 

think,  in  every  generation  of  undergraduates,  who  will  have 
a  good  deal  to  say  to  the  ruling  and  guiding  of  the  British 
nation  before  they  die. 

"  But,  after  all,  the  river  is  the  feature  of  Oxford,  to  my 
mind  ;  a  glorious  stream,  not  five  minutes'  walk  from  the 
colleges,  broad  enough  in  most  places  for  three  boats  to  row 
abreast.  I  expect  I  shall  take  to  boating  furiously  :  I  have 
been  down  the  river  three  or  four  times  already  with  some 
other  freshmen,  and  it  is  glorious  exercise  ;  that  I  can  see, 
though  we  bungle  and  cut  crabs  desperately  at  present. 

"  Here's  a  long  yarn  I'm  spinning  for  you  ;  and  I  dare  say 
after  all  you'll  say  it  tells  you  nothing,  and  you'd  rather  have 
twenty  lines  about  the  men,  and  what  they're  thinking  about, 
and  the  meaning  and  inner  life  of  the  place,  and  all  that. 
Patience,  patience  !  I  don't  know  anything  about  it  myself 
yet,  and  have  only  had  time  to  look  at  the  shell,  which  is  a 
very  handsome  and  stately  affair ;  you  shall  have  the  kernel, 
if  I  ever  get  at  it,  in  due  time. 

**  And  now  write  me  a  long  letter  directly,  and  tell  me 
about  the  Doctor,  and  who  are  in  the  Sixth,  and  how  the 
house  goes  on,  and  what  sort  of  an  eleven  there'll  be,  and 
what  you  are  all  doing  and  thinking  about.  Come  up  hero 
and  try  for  a  scholarship  ;  I'll  take  you  in  and  show  you 
the  lions.  Eemember  me  to  aU  old  tiiends. — Ever  yours 
affecti^uately,  T.  B." 


CHAPTER  II. 

A    ROW    ON    THE    RIVER. 

WiTHTN  a  day  or  two  of  the  penning  of  this  celebrated  epistle, 
which  created  quite  a  sensation  in  the  sixth-form  room  as  it 
went  the  round  after  tea,  Tom  realized  one  of  the  objects  of 
his  yoLing  Oxford  ambition,  and  succeeded  in  embarking  on 
the  river  in  a  skiff  by  himself,  with  such  results  as  are  now 
to  be  described.  He  had  already  been  down  several  times  in 
pair-oar  and  four-oar  boats,  with  an  old  oar  to  puU  stroke, 
and  another  to  steer  and  coach  the  young  idea,  but  he  M'as  not 
satisfied  with  these  essays.  He  could  not  believe  that  he  was 
such  a  bad  oar  as  the  old  hands  made  him  out  to  be,  and 
tliought  that  it  nmst  be  the  fault  of  the  other  fre.shmen  who 
were  learning  with  him  that  the  boat  made  so  little  way  and 
rolled  so  much.     He  had  been  such  a  proficient  in  aU  the 


A   ROW   ON   THE   RIVER.  11 

Rugby  games,  that  he  couldn't  realize  the  fact  of  his  unreadiness 
in  a  boat.  Pulling  looked  a  simple  thing  enough — much  easier 
than  tennis ;  and  he  had  made  a  capital  start  at  the  latter 
game,  and  been  highly  complimented  by  the  marker  after  his 
first  hour  in  the  little  court.  He  forgot  that  cricket  and  fives 
are  capital  training  for  tennis,  but  that  rowing  is  a  speciality, 
of  the  rudiments  of  which  he  was  wholly  ignorant.  And  so, 
in  full  conlidenco  that,  if  he  could  only  have  a  turn  or  twn 
alone,  he  should  not  only  satisfy  himself,  but  everybody  else, 
that  bo  was  a  heaven-born  oar,  he  refused  all  offers  of  com- 
panionship, and  staittul  on  the  afternoon  of  a  line  February 
day  down  to  the  boats  for  his  trial  trip.  He  had  watched  his 
regular  companions  well  out  of  college,  and  gave  them  enough 
start  to  make  sure  that  they  would  be  olf  before  he  himself 
could  arrive  at  the  St.  Ambrose's  dressing-room  at  Hall's,  and 
chuckled,  as  he  came  within  sight  of  the  river,  to  see  the 
freshmen's  boat  in  which  he  generally  performed,  go  plunging 
away  past  the  University  barge,  keeping  three  different  times 
with  four  oars,  and  otherwise  demeaning  itself  so  as  to  become 
an  object  of  niirtliful  admiration  to  all  beholders. 

Tom  was  punted  across  to  Hall's  in  a  state  of  great  content, 
which  increased  when,  in  answer  to  his  casual  inquiry,  the 
managing  man  informed  him  that  not  a  man  <A'  his  college 
was  about  the  place.  So  he  ordered  a  skiff  with  as  much 
dignity  and  coolness  as  he  could  command,  and  hastened  up 
stairs  to  dress.  He  appeared  again,  carrying  his  boating  coat 
and  cap.  They  were  quite  new,  so  he  would  not  Avear  them  : 
nothing  about  him  should  betray  the  fi-eshman  on  this  day  if 
h.e  could  help  it. 

"Is  my  skiff  ready?" 

"  All  right,  sir  ;  this  way,  sir ; "  said  the  manager,  con- 
ducting him  to  a  good,  safe- loo  king  craft.  "  Any  gentleman 
going  to  steer,  sir  1 " 

"No,"  said  Tom,  superciliously;  "You  may  take  out  the 
rudder." 

"  Going  quite  alone,  sir  1  Better  take  one  of  our  boys — 
find  you  a  very  light  one.  Here,  Bill !  " — and  he  turned  to 
summons  a  juvenile  waterman  to  take  charge  of  our  hero. 

"  Take  out  the  rudder,  do  you  hear  1  "  interrupted  Tom. 
"  I  won't  have  a  stcerer." 

"  Well,  sir,  as  you  [ilease,"  said  the  manager,  proceeding  to 
remove  the  degrading  appendage.  "  The  river's  rather  liigL 
please  to  remember,  sir.  You  must  mind  the  mill-stream  at 
I.lley  Lock.     I  suppose  you  can  swim  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  said  Tom,  settling  himself  on  his  cushion, 
"  New,  shove  her  olf." 


12  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFORD. 

The  next  moment  ^e  was  well  out  in  the  stream,  and  left  to 
his  own  resovirces.  He  got  his  sculls  out  successfully  enough, 
anil,  though  feeling  by  no  means  easy  on  his  seat,  proceeded 
to  pull  very  deliberately  past  the  barges,  stopping  his  sculla 
in  the  air  to  feather  accurately,  in  the  hopes  of  deceiving 
spectators  into  the  belief  that  he  was  an  old  hand  just  going 
out  for  a  gentle  paddle.  The  manager  watched  him  for  a 
minute,  and  turned  to  his  work  with  an  aspiration  that  he 
might  not  come  to  grief. 

But  no  thought  of  grief  was  on  Tom's  mind  as  he  dropped 
gently  down,  impatient  for  the  time  when  he  should  pass  tlie 
mouth  of  the  Cherwell,  and  so,  having  no  longer  critical  eyes 
to  fear,  might  put  out  his  whole  strength,  and  give  himself 
at  least,  if  not  the  world,  assurance  of  a  waterman. 

The  day  was  a  very  fine  one,  a  bright  sun  shining,  and  a 
nice  fresh  breeze  blowing  across  the  stream,  but  not  enough 
to  ruffle  the  water  seriously.  Some  heavy  storms  up  Glouces- 
tershii-e  way  had  cleared  the  air,  and  swollen  the  stream  at  the 
same  time  ;  in  fact,  the  river  was  as  full  as  it  could  be  without 
overflowing  its  banks — a  state  in  which,  of  all  others,  it  is  the 
least  safe  for  boating  experiments.  Fortunately,  in  those  days 
there  were  no  outriggers.  Even  the  racing  skiffs  were  com- 
paratively safe  craft,  and  would  now  be  characterized  as  tubs ; 
while  the  real  tubs  (in  one  of  the  safest  of  which  the  prudent 
manager  had  embarked  our  hero)  were  of  such  build  that  it 
required  considerable  ingenuity  actually  to  upset  them. 

If  any  ordinary  amount  of  bungling  could  have  done  it, 
Tom's  voyage  would  have  terminated  within  a  hundred  yards 
of  the  CherwelL  While  he  had  been  sitting  quiet  and  merely 
paddling,  and  almost  letting  the  stream  carry  him  down,  the 
boat  had  trimmed  well  enough ;  but  now,  taking  a  long 
breath,  he  leaned  forward,  and  dug  his  sculls  into  the  water, 
p\dling  them  through  with  all  his  strength.  The  consequence 
of  this  feat  was  that  the  handles  of  the  sculls  came  into  violent 
collision  in  the  middle  of  the  boat,  the  knuckles  of  his  right 
hand  were  barked,  his  left  scull  unshipped,  and  the  head  of 
his  skiff  almost  blown  round  by  the  wincl  before  he  could 
restore  order  on  board. 

"  Never  mind  ;  try  again,"  thought  he,  after  the  first  sensa- 
tion of  disgust  had  passed  off,  and  a  glance  at  the  shore  showed 
him  that  there  were  no  witnesses.  "  Of  course,  I  forgot,  one 
hand  must  go  over  the  other.  It  might  have  happened  to 
any  one.  Lut  me  see,  which  hand  shall  I  keep  uppermost : 
the  left,  that's  the  weakest."  And  away  he  went  again, 
keeping  his  newly-acquired  fact  painfully  in  mind,  and  so 
avoiding  further  collision  amidships  for  four  or  five  strokea 


A   now    ON   THE    RIVER.  13 

Eiit,  as  in  otlier  .-^cioncea,  the  giving  of  undue  prominence  to 
one  fact  brings  otliers  inexorably  on  the  head  of  the  student 
to  avenge  his  neglect  of  them,  so  it  happened  w^ith  Tom  in  his 
practical  study  of  the  science  of  rowing,  that  by  thinking  of 
his  hands  he  forgot  his  seat,  and  the  necessity  of  trimming 
properly.  Whereupon  the  old  tub  began  to  rock  fearfully, 
and  the  next  moment  he  missed  the  water  altogether  with  his 
right  scull,  and  subsided  backwards,  not  without  struggles, 
into  the  bottom  of  the  boat ;  while  the  half  stroke  which  he 
had  pulled  with  iiis  left  hand  sent  her  head  well  into  the 
bank. 

Tom  picked  himself  up,  and  settled  himself  on  his  bench 
again,  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man,  as  the  truth  began  to  dawn 
upon  him  that  pulling,  especially  sculling,  does  not,  like 
reading  and  writing,  come  by  nature.  However,  he  addressed 
himself  manfully  to  his  task  ;  savage  indeed,  and  longing  to 
drive  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  old  tub,  but  as  resolved  as 
ever  to  get  to  Sandford  and  back  before  hall  time,  or  perish  iu 
the  attempt. 

He  shoved  himself  off  the  bank,  and,  warned  by  his  last 
mishap,  got  out  into  mid  stream,  and  there,  moderating  his 
ardour,  and  contenting  himself  with  a  slow  and  steady  stroke, 
was  progressing  satisfactorily,  and  beginning  to  recover  his 
temper,  when  a  loud  shout  startled  him ;  and,  looking  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  imminent  risk  of  an  upset,  he  beheld  the 
fast  sailer  the  Dart,  clase  hauled  on  a  wind,  and  almost  aboard 
of  him.  Utterly  ignorant  of  what  was  the  right  thing  to  do, 
he  held  on  his  course,  and  passed  close  under  the  bows  of  the 
miniature  cutter,  the  steersman  having  jammed  his  helm  hard 
down,  shaking  her  in  the  wind,  to  prevent  running  over  the 
skiff,  and  solacing  liiniself  with  pouring  maledictions  on  Tom 
and  his  craft,  in  which  the  man  who  had  hold  of  the  sheets, 
and  the  third,  avIio  was  lounging  in  the  bows,  heartily  joined. 
Tom  was  out  of  ear-shot  before  he  had  collected  vituperation 
enough  to  hurl  back  at  them,  and  was,  moreover,  already  in 
the  difficult  navigation  of  the  Gut,  where,  notwithstanding  all 
his  efforts,  he  again  ran  aground  ;  but,  with  this  exception, 
he  arrived  without  other  mishap  at  Ifflcy,  where  he  lay  on  his 
sculls  w'ith  much  satisfaction,  and  shouted,  "Lock — lock  !" 

The  lock-keeper  appeared  to  the  summons,  but  instead  of 
opening  the  gates  seized  a  long  boat-hook,  and  rushed  towards 
our  hero,  calling  on  him  to  mind  the  mill-stream,  and  pull  his 
right-hand  scull ;  notwithstanding  which  Avarning,  Tom  was 
mthin  an  ace  of  drifting  past  the  entrance  to  the  lock,  in 
which  case  assuredly  his  boat,  if  not  he,  had  never  returned 
whole.     However,  the  lock-keeper  managed  to  catch  the  stern 


14  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

of  his  skiff  with  the  boat-hook,  and  drag  him  back  into  the 
proper  channel,  and  then  opened  the  lock-gates  for  him. 
Tom  congratulated  himself  as  he  entered  the  lock  that  there 
were  no  other  boats  going  through  with  him ;  but  his  evil 
star  was  in  the  ascendant,  and  all  things,  animate  and  inani- 
mate, seemed  to  be  leagued  together  to  humiliate  him.  As 
the  water  began  to  fall  rapidly,  he  lost  his  hold  of  the  chain, 
and  the  tub  instantly  drifted  across  the  lock,  and  was  in 
imminent  danger  of  sticking  and  breaking  her  back,  when  the 
lock-keeper  again  came  to  the  ^escue  with  his  boat-hook  ;  and, 
guessing  the  state  of  the  case,  did  not  quit  him  until  he  had 
safely  shoved  him  and  his  boat  Avell  out  into  the  pool  below, 
with  an  exhortation  to  mind  and  go  outside  of  the  barge  which 
was  coming  up. 

Tom  started  on  the  latter  half  of  his  outward  voyage  with 
the  sort  of  look  which  Cato  must  have  worn  when  he  elected 
the  losing  side,  and  all  the  gods  went  over  to  the  winning 
one.  But  his  previous  struggles  had  not  been  thrown  away, 
and  he  managed  to  keep  the  right  side  of  the  barge,  turn  the 
corner  without  going  aground,  and  zigzag  down  Kennington 
reach,  slowly  indeed,  and  with  much  labour,  but  at  any  rate 
safely.  Rejoicing  in  this  feat,  he  stopped  at  the  island,  and 
recreated  himself  with  a  glass  of  beer,  looking  now  hoijefuUy 
towards  Sandford,  which  Iwy  within  easy  distance,  now  up- 
wards again  along  the  reach  which  he  had  just  overcome,  and 
solacing  himself  ^yith  the  remembrance  of  a  dictum,  wliich  he 
had  heard  from  a  great  authority,  that  it  was  always  easier  to 
steer  up  stream  than  down,  from  which  he  argued  that  the 
worst  part  of  his  trial  trip  w^as  now  over. 

Presently  he  saAV  a  skiff  turn  the  corner  at  the  top  of  the 
Kennington  reach,  and,  resolving  in  his  mind  to  get  to 
Sandford  before  the  new  comer,  paid  for  his  beer,  and  betook 
himself  again  to  his  tub.  He  got  pretty  well  off,  and,-  the 
island  shutting  out  his  unconscious  rival  from  his  view,  worked 
away  at  first  under  the  pleasing  delusion  that  he  was  holding 
his  own.  But  he  was  soon  undeceived,  for  in  monstrously 
short  time  the  pursuing  skiff  showed  round  the  corner,  and 
bore  down  on  him.  He  never  relaxed  his  efforts,  but  could 
not  help  watching  the  enemy  as  he  came  up  with  him  hand 
over  hand,  and  envying  tlie  perfect  ease  with  which  he  seemed 
to  be  pulling  his  long  steady  stroke,  and  the  precision  with 
which  he  steered,  scarcely  ever  casting  a  look  over  his  .shoulder. 
He  was  hugging  the  Berkshire  side  himself,  as  the  other  skifi 
passed  him,  and  thought  he  heard  the  sculler  say  something 
about  keeping  out,  and  minding  the  small  lasher;  but  the 
noise  of  waters  and  his  own  desperate  efforts  prevented  his 


A   ROW   ON   THE   RIVER.  15 

heeding,  or,  indeed,  hearing  the  warning  plainly.  In  anotlier 
minute,  however,  he  heard  plainly  enough  most  energetic 
shouts  behind  him ;  and,  turning  his  head  over  his  right 
shoulder,  saw  the  man  who  had  just  passed  him  backing  his 
skiff  rapidly  up  stream  towards  him.  The  next  moment  he 
felt  the  bows  of  his  boat  whirl  round,  the  old  tub  grounded 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  turning  over  on  her  side,  shot  him 
out  on  to  the  planking  of  the  steep  descent  into  the  small 
lasher.  He  grasped  at  the  boards,  but  they  were  too  slippery 
to  hold,  and  the  rush  of  water  was  too  strong  for  him,  and, 
rolling  him  over  and  over,  like  a  piece  of  drift  wood,  jDlunged 
him  into  the  pool  below. 

After  the  first  moment  of  astonishment  and  fright  was  over, 
Tom  left  himself  to  the  stream,  holding  his  breath  hard,  and 
paddling  gently  with  his  hands,  feeling  sure  that,  if  he  could 
only  hold  on,  he  should  come  to  the  surface  sooner  or  later  ; 
which  accordingly  happened  after  a  somewhat  lengthy  sub- 
mersion. 

His  first  impulse  on  rising  to  the  surface,  after  catching  his 
breath,  was  to  strike  out  for  the  shore,  but,  in  the  act  of  doing 
so,  he  caught  sight  of  the  other  skiif  coming  stern  foremost 
down  the  descent  after  him,  and  he  trod  the  water  and  drew 
in  his  breath  to  watch.  Down  she  came,  as  straight  as  an 
arrow,  into  the  tumult  below  ;  the  sculler  sitting  upright,  and 
holding  his  sculls  steadily  in  the  water.  For  a  moment  she 
seemed  to  be  going  under,  but  righted  herself,  and  glided 
Bwiftly  into  the  stiU  water ;  and  then  the  sculler  cast  a  hasty 
and  anxious  glance  round,  tiU  his  eyes  rested  on  our  hero's 
half- drowned  head. 

"  Oh,  there  you  are  !"  he  said,  looking  much  relieved  ;  "all 
right,  I  hope.     Not  hurt,  ehf 

"  No,  thankee;  all  right,  I  believe,"  answered  Tom,  "What 
shall  Idof 

"Swim  ashore;  I'll  look  after  your  boat."  So  Tom  took 
the  advice,  SAvam  ashore,  and  there  stood  dripping  and  watch- 
ing the  other  as  he  righted  the  old  tub,  which  Avas  floating 
quietly  bottom  upwards,  little  the  worse  for  the  mishap,  and 
no  doubt,  if  boats  can  Avish,  earnestly  desiring  in  her  wooden 
mind  to  be  allowed  to  go  quietly  to  pieces  then  and  there, 
sooner  than  be  rescued  to  be  again  entrusted  to  the  guidance 
of  freshmen. 

The  tub  having  been  brought  to  the  bank,  the  stranger 
started  again,  and  collected  the  sculls  and  bottom  boards, 
which  were  floating  about  here  and  there  in  the  pool,  and  also 
succeeded  in  making  salvage  of  Tom's  coat,  the  pockets  of 
which  held  his  watch,  purse,  and  cigar  case.    These  he  brought 


If,  TOM  BEOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

to  the  bank,  and,  delivering  them  over,  inquired  whether  there 
was  anything  else  to  look  after. 

"  Thank  j'ou,  no ;  nothing  but  my  cap.  Kever  mind  it. 
It's  luck  enough  not  to  have  lost  the  coat,"  said  Tom,  holding 
up  the  dripping  garment  to  let  the  water  run  out  of  the  arms 
and  pocket-holes,  and  then  wringing  it  as  well  as  he  could. 
"  At  any  rate,"  thought  he,  "  I  neeeln't  be  afraid  of  its  looking 
too  new  any  more." 

The  stranger  put  off  again,  and  made  one  more  round,  search- 
ing for  the  cap  and  anything  else  which  he  might  have  over- 
looked, but  without  success.  While  he  was  doing  so,  Tom 
had  time  to  look  liim  well  over,  and  see  what  sort  of  man  had 
come  to  his  rescue.  He  hardly  knew  at  the  time  the  full 
extent  of  his  obligation — at  least  if  this  sort  of  obligation  is  to 
be  reckoned  not  so  much  by  the  service  actually  rendered,  as 
by  the  risk  encountered  to  be  able  to  render  it.  There  were 
probably  not  three  men  in  the  University  who  would  have 
dared  to  shoot  the  lasher  in  a  skiff  in  its  then  state,  for  it  was 
in  those  time>s  a  really  dangerous  place  ;  and  Tom  himself  had 
had  an  extraordinary  escape,  for,  as  Miller,  the  St.  Ambrose 
coxswain,  remarked  on  hearing  the  story,  "  l^o  one  who  wasn't 
born  to  be  hung  could  have  rolled  down  it  without  knocking 
his  head  against  something  hard,  and  going  down  like  lead 
when  he  got  to  the  bottom." 

He  was  very  well  satisfied  with  his  inspection.  The  other 
man  was  evidently  a  year  or  two  older  than  himself,  his  figure 
was  more  set,  and  he  had  stronger  whiskers  than  are  generally 
grown  at  twenty.  He  was  somewhere  about  five  feet  ten  in 
height,  very  deep-chested,  and  with  long  powerful  arms  and 
hands.  There  was  no  denying,  however,  that  at  the  first 
glance  he  was  an  ugly  man ;  he  was  marked  with  small-pox, 
had  large  features,  high  cheek-bones,  deeply  set  eyes,  and  a 
very  long  chin  :  and  had  got  the  trick  which  many  underhung 
men  have  of  compressing  his  upper  lip.  Nevertheless,  there 
was  that  in  his  face  which  hit  Tom's  fancy,  and  made  him 
anxious  to  know  his  rescuer  better.  He  had  an  instinct  that 
good  was  to  be  gotten  out  of  him.  So  he  was  very  glad  when 
the  search  was  ended,  and  the  stranger  came  to  the  bank, 
shipped  bis  sculls,  and  jumped  out  with  the  painter  of  his 
skiff'  in  his  hand,  which  he  proceeded  to  fasten  to  an  old 
stump,  while  he  remarked — 

"  I'm  afraid  the  cap's  lost." 

"It  doesn't  matter  the  least.  Thank  you  for  coming  to 
help  me ;  it  was  very  kind  indeed,  and  more  than  I  expected. 
Don't  they  say  that  one  Oxford  man  ^viU  never  save  another 
from  drowning  unless  they  have  been  introduced?" 


A  ROW  ON  THK  iirvr.a,  17 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  other;  "are  you  sure  you're 
aot  hurt?" 

"  Yes,  quite,"  said  Tom,  foiled  in  what  he  considered  an 
artful  plan  to  get  the  stranger  to  introduce  himself. 

"  Then  we're  very  well  out  of  it,"  said  the  other,  looking 
at  the  steep  descent  into  the  lasher,  and  the  rolling  tumbling 
rush  of  the  water  below. 

"Indeed  we  are,"  said  Tom;  "but  how  in  the  world  did 
you  manage  not  to  upset?" 

"  I  hardly  know  myself — I  have  shipped  a  good  deal  cf 
water,  you  see.  Perliaps  I  ought  to  have  jumped  out  on  the 
bank  and  come  across  to  you,  leaving  my  skiff  in  the  river, 
for  if  I  had  upset  I  couldn't  have  helped  you  much.  How- 
ever, I  followed  my  instinct,  which  was  to  come  the  quickest 
way.  I  thought,  too,  that  if  I  could  manage  to  get  down  in 
the  boat  I  should  be  of  more  use.  I'm  very  glad  I  did  it," 
he  added  after  a  moment's  pause;  "  I'm  really  proud  of  having 
come  down  that  place." 

"So  ain't  I,"  said  Tom  with  a  laugh, in v/hich  theother  joined. 

"  But  now  you're  getting  cliiUed,''  and  he  turned  from  the 
laslier  and  looked  at  Tom's  chattering  jaws. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing.     I'm  used  to  being  wet." 

"But  you  may  just  as  well  be  comfortable  if  you  can. 
Here's  this  rough  jersey  which  I  use  instead  of  a  coat;  pull 
oil"  that  wet  cotton  affair,  and  put  it  on,  and  then  we'll  get  to 
work,  for  we  have  plenty  to  do." 

After  a  little  persuasion  Tom  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  got 
into  the  great  woollen  garment,  which  was  very  comforting; 
and  then  the  two  set  about  getting  their  skiffs  back  into  the 
main  stream.  This  was  comparatively  easy  as  to  the  lighter 
skiff,  which  was  soon  baled  out  and  hauled  by  main  force  on 
to  tho  bank,  carried  across  and  launched  again.  The  tub  gave 
them  much  more  trouble,  for  she  was  quite  full  of  water  and 
very  heavy ;  but  after  twenty  minutes  or  so  of  hard  work, 
during  which  the  mutual  respect  of  the  labourers  for  the 
strength  and  willingness  of  each  other  was  much  increased, 
she  also  lay  in  the  main  strean'^  leaking  considerably,  but 
otherwise  not  much  the  worse  for  her  adventure. 

"Now  what  do  you  mean  to  do?"  said  the  stranger.  "  I 
don't  think  you  can  pull  home  in  her.  One  doesn't  know 
now  much  she  may  be  damaged.  She  may  sink  in  the  lock, 
or  play  any  prank." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  with  her?" 

"  Oh,  you  can  leave  her  at  Saudford  and  walk  up,  and  send 
one  of  Hall's  boys  for  her.  Or,  if  you  like,  I  will  tow  her  up 
behind  my  skiff" 

0 


18  TOM   BIIOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

"  Won't  your  skiff  carry  two?" 

"  Yes ;  if  you  like  to  come  I'll  take  you,  but  you  must  sit 
very  quiet." 

"Can't  we  go  down  to  Sandford  first  and  have  a  glass  of 
ale?     What  time  is  it? — the  water  has  stopped  my  watch." 

"A  quarter-past  three.  I  have  about  twenty  minutes  to 
spare." 

"  Come  along,  then,"  said  Tom ;  "  but  will  you  let  me  pull 
your  skiir  down  to  Sandford  ?  I  resolved  to  i)ull  to  Sandford 
to-day,  and  don't  hke  to  give  it  up." 

"  Ey  all  means,  if  you  like,"  said  the  other,  with  a  smile  ; 
"jump  in,  and  I'U  walk  along  the  bank." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tom,  hurrying  into  the  skiff,  in  which 
he  completed  the  remaining  quarter  of  a  mile,  while  the 
owner  walked  by  the  side,  watching  him. 

They  met  on  the  bank  at  the  little  inn  by  Sandford  lock, 
and  had  a  glass  of  ale,  over  which  Tom  confessed  that  it  wa.s 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  navigated  a  skiff  by  himself,  and 
gave  a  detailed  account  of  his  adventures,  to  the  great  amuse- 
ment of  his  companion.  And  by  the  time  they  rose  to  go,  it 
was  settled,  at  Tom's  earnest  request,  that  he  should  pull  the 
sound  skiff  up,  while  his  companion  sat  in  the  stern  and 
coached  him.  The  other  consented  very  kindly,  merely  stij)U- 
lating  that  he  himself  should  take  the  sculls,  if  it  should  prove 
that  Tom  could  not  pull  them  up  in  time  for  hall  dinner.  So 
they  started,  and  took  the  tub  in  tow  when  they  came  up  to 
it.  Tom  got  on  famously  under  his  new  tutor,  who  taught 
him  to  get  forward,  and  open  his  knees  properly,  and  throw 
his  weight  on  to  the  sculls  at  the  beginning  of  the  stroke. 
He  managed  even  to  get  into  liHey  lock  on  the  way  up  with- 
out fouling  the  gates,  and  was  then  and  there  complimented 
on  his  progress.  Whereupon,  as  they  sat,  while  the  lock 
filled,  Tom  poured  out  his  thanks  to  his  tutor  for  his  instruc- 
tion, which  had  been  given  so  judiciously  tliat,  while  he  wa.i 
conscious  of  improving  at  every  stroke,  he  did  not  feel  that  the 
other  was  asserting  any  superiority  over  him ;  and  so,  though 
more  hunible  than  at  the  most  disastrous  period  of  his  down- 
ward voyage,  he  was  getting  into  a  better  temper  every  minute. 

It  is  a  great  pity  that  some  of  our  instructors  in  more 
important  matters  than  scuUing  will  not  take  a  leaf  out  of  the 
same  book.  Of  course,  it  is  more  satisfactory  to  one's  own 
self-love,  to  make  every  one  who  comes  to  one  to  learn,  feel 
tliat  he  is  a  fool,  and  we  wise  men;  but,  if  our  object  is  to 
teach  well  and  usefully  what  we  know  ourselves  there  cannot 
be  a  worse  method.  IS^o  man,  however,  is  likely  to  aciopt  it, 
so  long  as  he  is  conscious  that  hfi  has  anything  himseli  Uj 


A    ROW    ON   THE   KIVEE.  19 

learn  from  his  pupils ;  and  as  soon  as  he  has  arrived  at  tlie 
conviction  that  they  can  teach  him  nothing — that  it  is  hence- 
forth to  be  all  give  and  no  take — the  sooner  he  throws  up  liis 
office  of  teacher,  the  better  it  will  be  for  hiniseK,  his  pupils, 
and  his  country,  wJiose  sous  he  is  misguiding. 

On  their  way  up,  so  intent  were  they  on  their  own  work 
that  it  was  not  until  shouts  of  "  Hullo,  Brown  !  how  did  you 
get  there]  Why,  you  said  you  were  not  going  down  to-day," 
greeted  them  just  above  tlie  Gut,  that  they  were  aware  of  the 
presence  of  the  freshmen's  four-oar  of  St.  Ambrose  College, 
which  had  with  some  trouble  succeeded  in  overtaking  them. 

"  I  said  I  wasn't  going  down  with  you"  shouted  Tom, 
grinding  away  harder  than  ever,  that  they  might  witness  and 
wonder  at  his  prowess. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  !  "VVliose  sldflf  are  you  towing  up  ]  1 
believe  you've  been  upset." 

Tom  made  no  reply,  and  the  four-oar  floundered  on  ahead. 

"  A.\%  you  at  St.  Ambrose's  V  asked  his  sitter,  after  a  minute. 

"Yes;  that's  my  treadmill,  that  four-oar.  I've  been  down 
in  it  almost  every  day  since  I  came  up,  and  very  poor  fun  it 
is.  So  I  thought  to-day  I  would  go  on  my  own  hook,  and 
see  if  I  coiddn't  make  a  better  hand  of  it.  And  I  have  too, 
I  know,  thanks  to  you." 

The  other  made  no  remark,  but  a  little  shade  came  over 
his  face.  He  had  had  no  chance  of  making  out  Tom's  college, 
as  the  new  cap  which  would  have  betrayed  him  had  disappeared 
in  the  lasher.  He  himself  w^ore  a  glazed  straw  hat,  wliicli  was 
of  no  college;  so  that  up  to  tliis  time  neither  of  them  had 
known  to  what  college  the  other  belonged. 

When  they  landed  at  Hall's,  Tom  was  at  once  involved  ii: 
a  wrangle  with  the  manager  as  to  the  amount  of  damage  done 
to  the  tub;  which  the  latter  refused  to  assess  before  he  knew 
what  had  happened  to  it;  while  our  hero  vigorously  and  with 
reason  maintained,  that  if  he  knew  his  business  it  could  not 
matter  what  had  happened  to  the  boat.  There  she  was,  and 
he  must  say  whether  she  was  better  or  worse,  or  ho^y  much 
worse  than  when  she  started.  In  the  midille  of  wliich  dia- 
logue his  new  acquaintance,  touching  his  arm,  said,  "  You 
can  leave  my  jersey  with  your  own  things ;  I  shall  got  it  to- 
morrow," and  then  disappeared. 

Tom,  when  he  had  come  to  terms  with  his  adversary,  ran 
upstaii's,  expecting  to  find  the  other,  and  meaning  to  toll  his 
name,  and  find  out  who  it  was  that  had  played  the  good  Sama- 
ritan by  him.  He  was  much  annoyed  when  he  found  the 
coast  clear,  and  dressed  in  a  grumbling  humoiu'.  "I  wonder 
why  he  should  have  gone  olf  so  ipiick.     He  might  just  as 

C  2 


20  TOM   BKOWN   AT  OXFOED. 

well  have  stayed  and  walked  up  with  me,"  thought  he.  "  Let 
mo  see,  though;  didn't  he  say  I  was  to  leave  his  jersey  in 
our  room,  with  my  own  things  1  Why,  perhaps  he  is  a 
St.  Ambrose  man  himself.  But  then  he  would  have  told  me 
so,  surely.  I  don't  remember  to  have  seen  his  face  in  chapel 
or  hull;  but  then  there  are  such  a  lot  of  new  faces,  and  he 
may  not  sit  near  me.  However,  I  moan  to  find  Mm  out 
before  long,  whoever  he  may  be."  With  which  resolve  Tom 
crossed  in  the  punt  into  Christ's  Church  meadow,  and  strolled 
college-wards,  feeling  that  he  had  had  a  good  hard  afternoon's 
exercise,  and  was  much  the  better  for  it.  He  might  have 
satisfied  his  curiosity  at  once  by  simply  asking  the  manager 
who  it  was  that  had  arrived  with  him ;  and  this  occurred  to 
him  before  he  got  home,  whereat  he  felt  satisfied,  but  would 
not  go  back  then,  as  it  was  so  near  hall  time.  He  Avould  be 
sure  to  remember  it  the  first  thing  to-morrow. 

As  it  happened,  however,  he  bad  not  so  long  to  wait  for 
the  information  which  he  needed;  for  scarcely  had  he  sat 
down  in  hall  and  ordered  his  dinner,  when  he  caught  sight 
of  his  boating  accpiaintance,  who  walked  in  habited  in  a  gown 
which  Tom  took  for  a  scliolar's.  He  took  his  seat  at  a  little 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  near  the  bachelors'  table,  but 
quite  away  from  the  rest  of  the  undergraduates,  at  which  sat 
four  or  five  other  men  in  similar  gowns.  He  either  did  not 
or  would  not  notice  the  looks  of  recognition  which  Tom  kept 
firing  at  him  until  he  had  taken  his  seat. 

"  Who  is  that  man  that  has  just  come  in,  do  you  know  ?" 
said  Tom  to  his  next  neighbour,  a  second-term  man. 

"Which'?"  said  the  other,  looking  up. 

"  That  one  over  at  the  little  table  in  the  middle  of  the  hall, 
with  the  dark  whiskers.  There,  he  has  just  turned  rather 
from  us,  and  put  his  arm  on  the  table." 

"  Oh,  his  name  is  Hardy." 

"  Do  you  know  him  1" 

"  No ;  I  don't  think  anybody  does.  They  say  he  is  a 
clever  fellow,  but  a  very  queer  one." 

"Why  does  he  sit  at  that  table"?" 

"He  is  one  of  our  servitors;  they  all  sit  there  together." 

"  Oh,"  said  Tom,  not  much  wiser  for  the  information,  but 
resolved  to  waylay  Hardy  as  soon  as  the  hall  was  over,  and 
highly  delighted  to  find  that  they  were  after  all  of  the  same 
college;  for  he  had  already  begun  to  find  out,  that  however 
friendly  you  may  be  with  out-college  men,  you  must  live 
chiefly  with  those  of  your  o^vn.  But  now  his  scout  brou'dit 
bis  dinner,  and  he  fell  to  with  the  appetite  of  a  freshman  on 
liLs  ample  commons. 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  DKYSDALE's.  2l 

CHAPTER  III. 

A    BREAKFAST    AT   DRTSDALE'S. 

No  man  in  St.  Ambrose  College  gave  such  Lreakfasta  as 
Drysdale.  Not  the  great  heavy  spreads  for  thirty  or  forty, 
which  came  once  or  twice  a  terra,  when  everything  was  sup- 
plied out  of  the  college  kitchen,  and  you  had  to  ask  leave  of 
the  Dean  before  you  could  have  it  at  all.  In  those  ponderous 
feasts  the  most  hum-drum  of  undergraduate  kind  might  rival 
the  most  artistic,  if  he  could  only  pay  his  battel -l:)ill,  or  get 
credit  with  the  cook.  But  the  da  ly  morning  meal,  when  even 
gentlemen-commoners  were  limited  to  two  hot  dishes  out  of 
the  kitchen,  this  was  Drysdale's  forte.  Ordinary  men  left  the 
matter  in  the  hands  of  scouts,  and  were  content  v/ith  the  ever- 
recurring  buttered  toast  and  eggs,  with  a  dish  of  broiled  ham, 
or  something  of  the  sort,  and  marmalade  and  bitter  ale  to 
linish  with  ;  but  Drysdale  Avas  not  an  ordinary  man,  as  yoi 
felt  in  a  moment  when  you  went  to  breakfast  with  him  for 
the  first  time. 

The  staircase  on  which  he  lived  was  inhabited,  except  in 
the  garrets,  by  men  in  the  fast  set,  and  he  and  three  others, 
who  had  an  equal  aversion  to  solitary  feeding,  had  established 
a  breakfast-club,  in  v.diich,  thanks  to  Drysdale's  genius,  real 
scientific  gastronomy  was  cultivated.  Every  morning  the  boy 
from  the  Weirs  arrived  with  freshly  caught  gudgeon,  and  now 
and  then  an  eel  or  trout,  which  the  scouts  on  the  stahcase  had 
learnt  to  fry  delicately  in  oil.  Eresh  watercresses  came  in  the 
same  basket,  and  the  college  kitchen  furnished  a  spitchcocked 
chicken,  or  grilled  turkey's  leg.  In  the  season  there  were 
plover's  eggs  ;  or,  at  the  worst,  there  was  a  dainty  omelette  ; 
and  a  distant  baker,  famed  for  his  light  rolls  and  high  charges, 
sent  in  the  bread — the  common  domestic  college  loaf  being 
of  course  out  of  the  question  for  any  one  Avith  the  slightest 
pretensions  to  taste,  and  fit  only  for  the  perquisite  of  scouts. 
Then  there  would  be  a  deep  Yorkshire  pie,  or  reservoir  of 
potted  game,  as  a  piece  de  resistance,  and  three  or  four  sorts 
of  preserves  ;  and  a  lai'ge  cool  tankard  of  cider  or  ale-cup  to 
finish  up  with,  or  soda-Avater  and  maraschino  for  a  change. 
Tea  and  coffee  Avere  there  indeed,  but  merely  as  a  compliment 
to  those  respectable  beverages,  for  they  were  rarely  touched 
by  the  breakfast-eaters  of  No.  3  staircase.  Pleasant  young 
gentlemen  they  were  on  No.  3  staircase  ;  I  mean  the  ground 
iind  first-floor  men  who  formed  the  breakfast-club,  for  the 
garrets  were  nobodies.    Three  out  of  the  four  were  gentlemen- 


22  TOM   BROWN  AT   OXrOKD. 

commnrieTf!,  with  allowances  of  500Z.  a  year  at  least  eath  ; 
and,  as  they  treated  their  allowances  as  pocket-money,  and 
were  all  in  their  first  year,  ready  money  was  plenty  and  credit 
good,  and  they  might  have  had  potted  hippopotamus  for 
breaklar.t  if  they  had  chosen  to  order  it,  which  they  would 
most  likely  have  done  if  they  had  thought  of  it. 

Two  out  of  the  three  were  the  sous  of  rich  men  who  had 
made  their  own  fortunes,  and  sent  their  sons  to  St.  Ambrose's 
becauFe  it  was  very  desirable  that  the  young  gentlemen  should 
make  good  connexions.  In  fact,  the  fathers  looked  upon  the 
University  as  a  good  investment,  and  gloried  much  in  hearing 
their  sons  talk  familiarly  in  the  vacations  of  their  dear  friends 
Lord  Harry  This  and  Sir  George  That. 

Drysdale,  the  third  of  the  set,  was  the  heir  of  an  old  as 
well  as  of  a  rich  family,  and  consequently,  having  his  con- 
nexion ready  made  to  his  hand,  cared  little  enough  with 
whom  he  associated,  provided  they  were  pleasant  fellows,  and 
gave  him  good  food  and  wines.  His  whole  idea  at  present 
was  to  enjoy  himself  as  much  as  possible  ;  but  he  had  good 
manly  stuff  in  him  at  the  bottom,  and,  had  he  fallen  into 
any  but  the  fast  set,  would  have  made  a  fine  fellow,  and  done 
credit  to  himself  and  his  college. 

The  fourth  man  of  the  breakfast-club,  the  Hon.  Piers  St. 
Cloud,  was  in  his  third  year,  and  was  a  very  well-dressed, 
well-mannered,  well-connected  young  man.  His  allowance 
was  small  for  the  set  he  lived  with,  but  he  never  wanted  for 
anythiag.  He  didn't  entertain  much,  certainly,  but  when  ho 
did,  everything  was  in  the  best  possible  style.  He  was  very 
exclusive,  and  knew  no  man  in  college  out  of  the  fa.'^t  set ; 
and  of  these  he  addicted  himself  chiefly  to  the  society  of  the 
rich  freshmen,  for  somehow  the  men  of  his  own  standing 
seemed  a  little  shy  of  him.  But  with  the  freshmen  he  was 
always  hand  and  glove,  lived  in  their  rooms,  and  used  their 
wines,  horses,  and  other  movable  property  as  his  OAvn.  Being 
a  good  whist  and  billiard  player,  and  not  a  bad  jockey,  he 
managed  in  one  way  or  another  to  make  his  young  friends  pay 
well  for  the  honour  of  his  acquaintance ;  as,  indeed,  why  should 
they  not,  at  least  those  of  them  who  came  to  college  to  form 
eligible  connexions ;  for  had  not  his  remote  lineal  ancestor 
come  ovei  in  the  same  ship  with  William  the  Conqueror? 
were  not  all  his  relations  about  the  Court,  as  lords  and  ladies 
in  waiting,  white  sticks  or  black  rods,  and  in  the  innermost 
of  all  possible  circles  of  the  great  world  ;  and  was  there  a 
better  coat  of  arms  than  he  bore  in  all  Bmke's  Peerage  t 

Our  hero  had  met  Drysdale  at  a  house  in  the  country 
shortly  before  the  beginning  of  his  first  term,  and  they  had 


A    liKEAKKAril    AT    DKYSDALE'S.  2^ 

rather  taken  to  one  another.  Drysdale  had  been  amongst  his 
first  callers  ;  and,  as  he  came  out  of  chapel  one  morning 
shortly  atter  his  arrival,  Drysdale's  scout  came  up  to  him  with 
an  invitation  to  breakfast.  So  he  went  to  his  own  rooms,  or- 
dered his  commons  to  be  taken  across  to  No.  3,  and  followed 
himself  a  few  minutes  afterwards.  No  one  was  in  the  rooms 
when  he  arrived,  lor  none  of  the  club  had  finished  their 
toilettes.  Morning  chapel  was  not  meant  for,  or  cultivated 
by,  gcnilemen-commoners  ;  they  paid  double  chapel  fees,  in 
consider;!  tion  of  which,  probably,  they  were  not  expected  to 
attend  so  often  as  the  rest  of  the  undergraduates  ;  at  any 
rate,  they  didn't,  and  no  harm  came  to  them  in  consequence 
of  their  absence.  As  Tom  entered,  a  great  splashing  in  an 
inner  room  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  Drysdale's  voice 
shouted  out  that  he  was  in  his  tub,  but  would  be  w'ith  him 
in  a  minute.  So  Tom  gave  himself  up  to  the  contemplation 
of  the  rooms  in  which  his  fortunate  acquaintance  dwelt ;  and 
very  pleasant  rooms  they  were.  The  large  room,  in  which  the 
breakfast-table  Avas  laid  for  five,  was  lofty  and  well-propor- 
tioned, and  panelled  with  old  oak,  and  the  furniture  was 
handsome  and  solid,  and  in  keeping  with  the  room. 

There  were  four  deep  windows,  high  up  in  the  wall,  with 
cushioned  seats  under  them,  two  looking  into  the  large  quad- 
rangle, and  two  into  the  inner  one.  Outside  these  windows, 
Drysdale  had  rigged  up  hanging  gardens,  which  were  kept 
full  of  flowers  by  the  first  nurseryman  in  Oxford  all  the  year 
round  ;  so  that  even  on  this  February  morning,  the  scent  of 
gardania  and  violets  pervaded  the  room,  and  strove  for  mastery 
with  the  smell  of  stale  tobacco,  which  hung  about  the  curtains 
and  sofas.  There  was  a  large  glass  in  an  oak  frame  over  the 
mantelpiece,  which  was  loaded  with  choice  pipes  and  cigar 
cases,  and  quaint  receptacles  for  tobacco ;  and  by  the  side  of 
the  glass  hung  small  carved  oak  frames,  containing  lists  of 
the  meets  of  the  Heythrop,  the  Old  Berkshire,  and  Drake's 
hounds,  for  the  current  week.  There  was  a  queer  assortment 
of  well-framed  paintings  and  engravings  on  the  walls  ;  some 
of  considerable  merit,  especially  some  water-colour  sea-pieces 
and  engravings  from  Landseer's  pictures,  mingled  with  which 
hung  Taglioni  and  C'erito,  in  short  petticoats  and  impossible 
attitudes ;  Phosphorus  winning  the  Derby ;  the  Death 
of  Grimaldi  (the  famous  steeple-chase  horse — not  poor  old 
Joe) ;  an  American  Trotting  Match,  and  Jem  Belcher  and 
Deaf  Burke  in  attitudes  of  self-defence.  -  Several  tandem  and 
riding  whips,  mounted  in  heavy  silver,  and  a  double-barrelled 
gun,  and  fishing  rods,  occupied  one  corner,  and  a  poli8h'3d 
copper  cask,  holding  about  live  gallons  of  mild  ale,  stood  in 


24  TOM    KUOWN   Al    OXFORD. 

another.  In  sLort,  there  was  plenty  of  everything  except 
boolcs — the  literature  of  the  world  being  represented,  so  far 
as  Tom  could  make  out  in  his  short  scrutiny,  by  a  fcAV  well- 
bound  but  badly  used  volumes  of  classics,  with  the  cribs 
thereto  appertaining,  shoved  away  rnto  a  cupboard  which  stood 
half  open,  and  contained  besides,  half-emptied  decanters,  and 
large  pewters,  and  dog-collars,  and  packs  of  cards,  and  all 
sorts  of  miscellaneous  articles  to  serve  as  an  antidijte. 

Tom  had  scarcely  finished  his  short  survey,  when  the  door 
of  the  bedroom  opened,  ana  Drysdale  emerged  in  a  loosi3 
jacket  lined  with  silk,  his  velvet  caj)  on  his  head,  and  other- 
wise gorgeously  attired.  He  was  a  pleasant-looking  follow, 
of  middle  size,  witli  dark  hair,  and  a  merry  broAvn  eye,  with 
a  twmkle  in  it,  which  spoke  Avell  for  his  sense  of  humour  ; 
otherwise,  his  large  features  were  rather  plain,  but  he  had 
the  look  and  manners  of  a  thoroughly  Avell-bred  gentleman. 

His  first  act,  after  nodding  to  Tom,  was  to  seize  on  a  pewter 
and  resort  to  the  cask  in  the  corner,  from  whence  he  drew  a 
pint  or  so  of  the  contents,  having,  as  he  said,  " '  a  whoreson 
longing  for  that  poor  creature,  small  beer.'  We  were  playing 
Van-John  in  Blake's  rooms  till  three  last  night,  and  he  gave 
us  devilled  bones  and  mulled  j^ort.  A  fellow  can't  enjoy  his 
broakfast  after  that  without  something  to  cool  his  co]"ix)ers." 

Tom  was  as  yet  ignorant  of  what  Van-John  might  be,  so 
held  his  peace,  and  took  a  pull  at  the  beer  which  the  otlier 
handed  to  him ;  and  then  the  scout  entered,  and  received 
orders  to  bring  up  Jack  and  the  breakfast,  and  not  wait  for 
any  one.  In  another  minute,  a  bouncing  and  scrattling  was 
heard  on  the  stairs,  and  a  white  bulldog  rushed  in,  a  gem  in 
his  Avay ;  for  his  brow  was  broad  and  massive,  his  skin  was 
as  fine  as  a  lady's,  and  his  tail  taper  and  nearly  as  thin  as  a 
clay  pipe.  His  general  look,  anil  a  way  he  had  of  goiiig 
'snuzzling'  about  the  calves  of  strangers,  were  not  pleasant 
for  nervous  iieople.  Tom,  however,  was  used  to  dogs,  and 
soon  became  friends  Avith  him,  v/hich  evidently  pleased  his 
host.  And  then  the  breakfast  ai-rived,  all  smoking,  and  with 
it  the  two  other  ingenious  youths,  in  velvet  caps  and  far  more 
gorgeous  apparel,  so  far  as  colours  went,  than  Drysdale.  They 
were  introduced  to  Tom,  who  thought  them  somewhat  ordi- 
nary and  rather  loud  young  gentlemen.  One  of  them  remon- 
strated vigorously  against  the  presence  of  that  confounded 
dog,  and  so  Jack  was  sent  to  lie  down  in  a  corner,  and  then 
the  four  fell  to  work  upon  the  breakfast. 

It  was  a  good  lesson  in  gastronomy,  but  the  results  are 
scarcely  worth  repeating  here.  It  is  wonderful,  though,  how 
you  feel  draAvn  to  a  man  who  feeds  you  well ;  and,  as  Tom's 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  DUYSDALE'S.  25 

aytpetite  got  less,  bis  liking  and  respect  for  his  host  undoubt- 
edly increased. 

Wlien  they  had  nearly  finished,  in  walked  the  Honourable 
Piers,  a  tall  slight  man,  two  or  three  years  older  than  the  rest 
of  them  ;  good-looking,  and  very  well  and  quietly  dressed, 
but  Avith  a  drawing  up  of  his  nostril,  and  a  dramng  down  of 
the  corners  of  his  mouth,  which  set  Tom  against  him  at  once. 
The  cool,  sui)ercilious  lialf-nod,  moreover,  to  which  he  treated 
our  hero  when  introduced  to  him,  was  enough  to  spoil  his 
digestion,  and  hurt  his  self-love  a  good  deal  more  than  he 
would  have  liked  to  own. 

"  Here,  Henry,"  said  the  Honourable  Piers  to  the  scout  in 
attendance,  seating  himsiilf,  and  inspecting  the  half-cleared 
dishes  ;  "  what  is  there  for  my  breakfast  1 " 

Henry  bustled  about,  and  handed  a  dish  or  two. 
"  I  don't  want  these  cold  things  ;  haven't  you  kept  mo  any 
gudgeon  1 " 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Henry,  "  there  was  only  two  dozen  this 
morning,  and  Mr.  Drysdale  told  me  to  cook  them  all." 

"  To  be  sure  I  did,"  said  Drysdale.  "Just  half  a  dozen  for 
each  of  us  four  :  they  were  first-rate.  If  you  can't  get  here 
at  half-past  nine,  you  won't  get  gudgeon,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Just  go  and  get  me  a  broil  from  the  kitchen,"  said  the 
Honourable  Piers,  without  deigning  an  answer  to  Dr3^sdale. 

"  Very  sorry,  sir ;  kitchen's  shut  by  now,  sir,"  answered 
Henry. 

"  Then  go  to  Hinton's,  and  order  some  cutlets." 
"  I  say,  Henry,"  shouted  Drysdale  to  the  retreating  scout ; 
"  not  to  my  tick,  mind  I  Put  them  down  to  Mr.  St.  Cloud." 
Henry  seemed  to  know  very  well  that  in  that  case  he  might 
save  himself  the  trouble  of  the  journey,  and  consequently  re- 
turned to  his  waiting  ;  and  the  Honourable  Piers  set  to  work 
upon  his  breakfast,  without  sho^wing  any  further  ill-teuiper 
certamly,  exce^it  by  the  stinging  things  which  he  threw  every 
now  and  then  into  the  conversation,  for  the  benefit  of  each  of 
the  others  in  turn. 

Tom  thought  he  detected  signs  of  coming  hostilities  be- 
tween his  host  and  St.  Cloud,  for  Drysdale  seemed  to  prick 
up  his  ears  and  get  combative  whenever  the  other  spoke,  and 
lost  no  chance  of  roughing  him  in  his  replies.  And,  indeed, 
he  was  not  far  wrong  ;  the  fact  being,  that  during  Drysdale's 
first  term,  the  other  had  lived  on  him — drinking  his  wine, 
smoking  his  cigars,  driving  his  dog-cart,  and  winning  his 
money ;  all  which  Drysdale,  who  was  the  easiest  going  and 
best  tempered  fellow  in  Oxford,  had  stood  without  turning 
a  hair,     ijut  St.  Cloud  added  to  these  little  favours  a  hall 


20  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

jjatTonizinp,  half  coiitemptuoiis  maTiiier,  which  he  used  with 
prat  success  towards  some  of  the  other  gentlemen-commoners, 
who  thought  it  a  mark  of  high  breeding,  and  the  correct 
thing,  hut  which  Drysdale,  who  didn't  care  three  straws  about 
ki.  owing  St.  Cloud,  wasn't  going  to  put  up  with. 

However,  nothing  happened  beyond  a  little  sparring,  and 
the  breakfast  things  were  cleared  away,  and  the  tankards  left 
on  the  table,  and  the  company  betook  themselves  to  cigars 
and  easy  chairs.  Jack  came  out  of  his  corner  to  be  gratihed 
with  come  of  the  remnants  cy  his  fond  master,  and  then 
curled  himself  up  on  the  sofa  along  which  Drysdale  lounged. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to-day,  Drysdale?"  said  one 
of  the  others.  "I've  ordex'ed  a  leader  to  be  sent  on  over  the 
bridge,  and  mean  to  drive  my  dog-cart  over,  and  dine  at 
Abingdon.     Won't  you  come  t  " 

"  Who's  going  besides  1 "  asked  Drysdale, 

"  Oh,  only  St.  Cloud  and  Farley  here.  There's  lots  of  room 
for  a  fourth." 

"  No,  thank'ee  ;  teaming's  slow  work  on  the  back  seat. 
Besides,  I've  half  promised  to  go  down  in  the  boat." 

"  In  the  boat !  "  shouted  the  other.  "  Wlij'^,  you  don't 
mean  to  say  you're  going  to  take  to  pulling  I " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  •  I  rather  think  1  am.  I'm  dog- 
tired  of  driving  and  doing  the  High  Street,  and  playing 
cards  and  billiards  all  day,  and  our  boat  is  likely  to  be 
head  of  the  river,  I  think." 

"  By  Jove !  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  your 
taking  to  reading,  or  going  to  University  Sermon,"  put  in 
St.  Cloud. 

"  And  the  boating-men,  too,"  went  on  Farley  ;  "  did  yon 
ever  see  such  a  set,  St.  Cloud  1  with  their  everlasting  flannels 
and  jerseys,  and  hair  cropped  like  prize-fighters." 

"  I'll  bet  a  guinea  there  isn't  one  of  them  has  more  than 
200Z.  a  year,"  put  in  Chanter,  whose  father  could  just  write 
his  name,  and  was  making  a  colossal  fortune  by  supplying 
bad  iron  rails  to  the  new  railway  companies. 

"  What  the  devil  do  I  care,"  broke  in  Drysdale  ;  "  I  know 
they're  a  deal  more  amusing  than  you  fellows,  who  can  do 
nothing  that  don't  cost  pounds." 

"  Getting  economical !  "  sneered  St.  Cloud. 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  the  fun  of  tearing  one's  heart  out,  and 
blistering  one's  hands,  only  to  get  abused  by  that  little  brute 
Miller  the  coxswain,"  said  Farley. 

"  Why,  you  won't  be  able  to  sit  straight  in  your  chair  for  a 
month,"  said  Chanter ;  "  and  the  captain  will  make  you  dine 
at  one,  and  fetch  you  out  of  anybody's  rooms,  confound  his 


A  BUEAKFAST  AT  DRYSDALE'S.  27 

iir  piideiice,  whether  he  knows  them  or  not,  at  eleven  o'clock 
every  night." 

"Two  cigars  a  day,  and  a  pint  and  a  half  of  liquid,"  and 
Farley  inserted  his  cod-fisli  face  into  the  tankard ;  "  fancy 
Drysdale  on  training  allowance  !  " 

Here  a  new  comer  entered  m  a  bachelor's  gown,  who  was 
warmly  greeted  by  the  name  of  Sanders  by  Drysdale.  St.  Cloud 
amd  he  exchanged  the  coldest  possible  nods  ;  and  the  other 
two,  taking  the  office  from  their  mentor,  stared  at  him  through 
their  smoke,  and,  after  a  minute  or  two's  silence,  and  a  few 
rude  half-whispered  remarks  amongst  themselves,  went  off  to 
play  a  game  at  pyramids  till  luncheon  time.  Sanders  took 
a  cigar  which  Drysdale  offered,  and  began  asking  him  about 
his  friends  at  home,  and  what  he  had  been  doing  in  the 
vacation. 

They  were  evidently  intimate,  though  Tom  thought  that 
Drysdale  didn't  seem  quite  at  his  ease  at  first,  which  he 
wondered  at,  as  Sanders  took  his  fancy  at  once.  However, 
eleven  o'clock  struck,  and  Tom  had  to  go  off  to  lecture,  where 
we  cannot  follow  him  just  now,  but  must  remain  with  Drys- 
dale and  Sanders,  who  chatted  on  very  pleasantly  for  some 
twenty  minutes,  till  a  knock  came  at  the  door.  It  was 
not  till  the  third  summons  that  Drysdale  shouted  "Come  in," 
with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  and  an  impatient  kick  at  the 
sofa-cushion  at  his  feet,  as  though  not  half  pleased  at  the 
approaching  visit. 

Header  !  had  you  not  ever  a  friend  a  few  years  older  than 
yourself,  whose  good  opinion  you  were  anxious  to  keeji  t  A 
iaWow  teres  atqi(e  rotundus  ;  who  could  do  everything  better 
than  you,  from  Plato  and  tennis  down  to  singing  a  comic  song 
and  playing  quoits'?  If  you  have  had,  wasn't  he  always  in 
your  rooms  or  company  whenever  anything  happened  to  show 
your  little  weak  points  1  Sanders,  at  any  rate,  occupied  this 
position  towards  our  young  friend  Drysdale,  and  the  latter, 
much  as  he  liked  Sanders's  company,  would  have  preferred 
it  at  any  other  time  than  on  an  idle  morning  just  at  the 
beginning  of  term,  when  the  gentlemen-tradesmen,  who  look 
upon  undergraduates  in  general,  and  gentlemen-commoners 
in  particular,  as  their  lawful  prey,  are  in  the  habit  of  calUng 
in  flocks. 

The  new  arrival  was  a  tall,  florid  man,  with  a  half  servile, 
half  impudent,  manner,  and  a  foreign  accent ;  dressed  in 
sumptuous  costume,  with  a  velvet-faced  coat,  and  a  gorgeous 
plush  waistcoat.  Under  his  arm  he  carried  a  large  parcel, 
which  he  proceeded  to  open,  and  placed  upon  a  sofa  the  con- 
tents, consisting  of  a  couple  of  coats,  and  three  or  four  waist- 


2B  TOM   BROWN  AT   OXFOED. 

coiit-s  and  pairs  of  trousers.  He  saluted  Sainlorp  with  a  mo::t 
obsequious  bow,  looked  nervously  at  Jack,  who  opened  one 
eye  from  between  his  master's  legs  and  growled,  and  then, 
turning  to  Drysdale,  asked,  if  he  should  have  the  honour  of 
seeing  him  try  on  any  of  thj  clothes  ? 

"No;  I  can't  be  bored  with  trying  them  on  now,"  said 
Drysdale  ;  "  leave  them  where  they  are." 

Mr.  Schloss  woiild  like  very  much  on  his  return  to  ton'u, 
in  a  day  or  two,  to  be  able  to  assure  his  principals,  that  Mr. 
Drysdale's  orders  had  been  executed  to  his  satisfaction.  He 
had  also  some  very  beautiful  new  stulfs  with  liim,  which  he 
should  like  to  submit  to  Mr.  Drysdale,  and  \\'itliout  more  ado 
began  unfolding  cards  of  the  most  fabulous  plushes  and  cloths. 

Drysdale  glanced  first  at  the  cards  and  then  at  Sandei^s, 
who  sat  puffing  his  cigar,  and  watching  Schloss's  proceedings 
with  a  look  not  unlike  Jack's  when  any  one  he  did  not 
approve  of  approached  his  master. 

"  Couf(jund  your  patterns,  Schloss,"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  I  tell 
you  I  have  more  things  than  I  want  already." 

"The  large  stri])e,  such  as  these,  is  now  very  much  worn  in 
London,"  went  on  Schloss,  without  heeding  the  rebuff,  and 
spreading  his  cards  on  the  table. 

"  D trousers,"  replied  Drysdale  ;   "  you  seem  to  tliink, 

Schloss,  that  a  fellow  has  ten  pairs  of  legs." 

"  Monsieur  is  pleased  to  joke,"  smiled  Schloss  ;  "but,  to  be 
in  the  mode,  gentlemen  must  have  variety." 

"Well,  I  won't  order  any  now,  that's  flat,"  said  Drysdale. 

"Monsieur  will  do  as  he  ])leases ;  but  it  is  impossible  that 
he  should  not  have  some  plash  waistcoats ;  the  i'abric  is  only 
just  out,  and  is  making  a  sensation." 

"  Now  look  here,  Schloss  ;  wUl  you  go  if  I  order  a  waist- 
coat?" 

"  Monsieur  is  very  good ;  he  sees  how  tasteful  these  new 
patterns  are." 

"  I  wouldn't  be  seen  at  a  cock-fight  in  one  of  them  ;  they're 
as  gaudy  as  a  salmon-fly,"  said  Drysdale,  feeling  the  stuff 
which  the  obsequious  Schloss  held  out.  "  But  it  seems  nice 
stuff,  too,"  he  went  on  j  "I  shouhlu't  mind  having  a  couple 
of  waistcoats  of  it  of  this  pattern;"  and  he  chucked  across  to 
Schloss  a  dark  tartan  waistcoat  which  was  lying  near  him. 
"  Have  you  got  the  stuff  in  that  pattern  V 

"Ah  !  no,''  said  Schloss,  gathering  up  the  waistcoat ;  "but 
it  shall  not  hinder.  1  shall  have  at  once  a  loom  for  Monsieur 
set  up  in  Paris." 

"Set  it  up  at  Jericho  if  you  like,"  said  Drysdale;  "and 
now  go  I" 


A   BKEAKFAST   AT    DrwYSDALE'S.  29 

"  May  I  ask,  Mr.  Schloss,"  broke  in  Sanders,  "  what  it  will 
cost  to  set  up  the  loom  1 " 

"  Ah. !  indeed,  a  trifle  only  ;  some  twelve,  or  perhaps  four- 
teen, pounds."  Sanders  gave  a  chuckle,  and  pujffed  away  at 
his  cigar. 

'  By  Jove,"  shouted  Drysdale,  jerking  himself  in  a  sitting 
posture,  and  upsetting  Jack,  who  went  trotting  about  the 
room,  and  snuffling  at  Schloss's  legs ;  "  do  you  mean  to  say, 
Schloss,  you  were  going  to  make  me  waistcoats  at  fourLcun 
guineas  apiece]" 

"  Not  if  Monsieur  disapproves.  Ah  !  the  large  hound  is 
not  friendly  to  strangers  ;  I  will  call  again  when  Monsieur  is 
more  at  leisure."  And  Schloss  gathered  up  his  cards  and  beat 
a  hasty  retreat,  followed  by  Jack  with  his  head  on  one  side, 
and  casting  an  enraged  look  at  Sanders,  as  he  slid  through  the 
door. 

"Well  done,  Jack,  old  boy!"  said  Sanders,  patting  him; 
"  what  a  funk  the  fellow  was  in.  Well,  you've  saved  your 
master  a  pony  this  fine  morning.  Cheap  dog  you've  got, 
Drysdale." 

"  D the  fellow,"  answered  Drysdale,  "  he  leaves  a  bad 

taste  in  one's  mouth  ;"  and  he  went  to  the  table,  took  a  pull 
at  the  tankard,  and  tlien  threw  himself  down  on  the  sofa 
again,  and  Jack  jumped  up  and  coiled  himself  round  by  his 
master's  legs,  keo[jing  one  half-open  eye  winking  at  him,  and 
giving  an  occasional  wag  Avith  the  end  of  his  taper  tail. 

Sanders  got  up,  and  began  handling  the  new  things.  First 
ho  held  up  a  pair  of  bright  blue  trousers,  with  a  red  stripe 
across  them,  Drysdale  looking  on  from  the  sofa.  "  I  say 
Drysdale,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  really  ordered  theso 
thunder-and-lightning  atfairs  ?" 

"  Heaven  only  knows,"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  I  daresay  I  did. 
I'd  order  a  full  suit  cut  out  of  my  grandmother's  farthingale 
to  get  that  cursed  Scliloss  out  of  my  rooms  sometimes." 

"  You'U  never  be  able  to  wear  them ;  even  in  Oxford  the 
boys  would  mob  you.  Why  don't  you  kick  him  down  stairs  ?" 
suggested  Sanders,  putting  down  the  trousers,  and  turning  to 
Drysdale. 

"  Well,  I've  been  very  near  it  once  or  twice  ;  but,  I  don't 
know — my  name's  Easy — besides,  I  don't  want  to  give  up  the 
beast  altogether  ;  he  makes  the  best  trousers  in  England." 

"And  these  waistcoats,"  went  on  Sanders  ;  "let  me  see; 
three  light  silk  waistcoats,  peach-colour,  fawn-colour,  and 
lavender.  Well,  of  course,  you  can  only  wear  these  at  your 
weddings.  You  may  be  married  the  first  time  in  the  peach 
ar  fawn-colour ;   and  then,  if  you  have  luck,  and  bury  your 


^0  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFORD. 

first  wife  soon,  it  will  be  a  delicate  compliment  to  take  to 
No.  2  in  the  lavender,  that  being  half-mourning  ;  but  still,  you 
see,  we're  in  difficulty  as  to  one  of  the  three,  either  the  peach 
or  the  fawn-colour — " 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  another  knock,  and  a  boy 
entered  from  the  fashionable  tobacconist's  in  Oriel  Lane,  who 
had  general  orders  to  let  Drysdale  have  his  fair  share  of  any- 
thing very  special  in  the  cigar  line.  He  deposited  a  two- 
pound  box  of  cigars  at  three  guineas  the  pomid,  on  the  table, 
and  withdrew  in  silence. 

Then  came  a  boot- maker  with  a  new  pair  of  top-boots,  which 
Drysdale  had  ordered  in  November,  and  had  forgotten  next 
day.  This  artist,  wisely  considering  that  his  young  patron 
must  have  plenty  of  tops  to  last  him  through  the  hunting 
season  (he  himself  having  supplied  three  previous  pairs  ia 
October),  had  retained  the  present  pair  for  show  in  his  win- 
dow ;  and  every  one  knows  that  boots  wear  much  better  for 
being  kept  some  time  before  use.  Now,  however,  as  the 
hunting  season  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  place  in  the 
window  was  wanted  for  spring  stock,  he  judiciously  sent  in 
the  tops,  merely  adding  half-a-sovereign  or  so  to  the  price  for 
interest  on  his  outlay  since  the  order.  He  also  kindly  left  on 
the  table  a  pair  of  large  plated  spurs  to  match  the  boots. 

It  never  rains  but  it  pours.  Sanders  sat  smoking  his  cigar 
in  provoking  silence,  while  knock  succeeded  knock  and  trades- 
man followed  tradesman  ;  each  depositing  some  article  ordered, 
or  supposed  to  have  been  ordered,  or  which  ought  in  the 
judgment  of  the  depositors  to  have  been  ordered,  by  the  luck- 
less Drysdale :  and  new  hats,  and  ties,  and  gloves,  and  pins, 
jostled  balsam  of  Neroli,  and  registered  shaving-soap,  and 
fancy  letter-paper,  and  Eau  de  Cologne,  on  every  available 
table.  A  visit  from  two  livery-stable-keepers  in  succession 
followed,  each  of  whom  had  several  new  leaders  which  they 
were  anxious  Mr.  Drysdale  should  try  as  soon  as  possible. 
Drysdale  growled  and  grunted,  and  wished  them  or  Sanders 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  ;  however,  he  consoled  himself  with 
the  thought  that  the  worst  was  now  past, — there  was  no  other 
possible  suppliei  of  undergraduate  wants  who  could  arrive. 

Not  so ;  in  another  minute  a  gentle  knock  came  at  the 
door.  Jack  pricked  up  his  ears  and  wagged  his  taQ  ;  Drysdale 
recklessly  shouted,  "  Come  in  ! "  the  door  slowly  opened  about 
eighteen  inches,  and  a  shock  head  of  hair  entered  the  room, 
from  which  one  lively  little  gimlet  eye  went  glancing  about 
into  every  corner.  The  other  eye  was  closed,  but  whether  as 
a  perpetual  wink  to  indicate  the  unsleeping  wariness  of  the 
owner,  or  because  that  hero  had  really  lost  the  power  of  using 


A  BKEAKFAST  AT  DRYSDALE's.  31 

it  in  some  of  his  numerous  encounters  with  men  and  beasts, 
no  one,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  ever  ascertained. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Drysdale,  sir!"  began  the  head ;  and  then  rapidly 
withdrew  behind  the  door,  to  avoid  one  of  the  spurs,  which 
(being  the  missile  nearest  at  hand)  Drysdale  instantly  dis- 
charged at  it.  As  the  spur  fell  to  the  tloor,  the  head  reappeared 
in  the  room,  and  as  quickly  disappeared  again,  in  deference  to 
the  other  spur,  the  top  boots,  an  ivory-haudled  hair-brush,  and 
a  translation  of  Euripides,  which  in  turn  saluted  each  succes- 
sive appearance  of  said  head ;  and  the  griu  was  broader  on 
each  reappearance. 

Then  Drysdale,  having  no  other  article  within  reach  which 
he  could  throw,  burst  into  a  loud  fit  of  laughter,  in  which 
Sanders  and  the  head  heartily  joined,  and  shouted,  "  Come  in, 
Joe,  you  old  fool  I  and  don't  stand  bobbing  your  ugly  old  mug 
in  and  out  there,  like  a  jack  in  the  box." 

So  the  head  came  in,  and  after  it  the  body,  and  closed  thj 
door  behind  it ;  and  a  queer  cross-grained,  tough-looking  body 
it  was,  of  about  fifty  years  standing,  or  rather  slouching,  clothed 
in  an  old  fustian  coat,  and  corduroy  breeches  and  gaiters, 
and  being  the  earthly  tabernacle  of  Joe  Muggles,  the  dog- 
fancier  of  St.  Aldate's. 

"  How  the  deuce  did  you  get  by  the  lodge,  Joe  t "  inquired 
Drysdale.  Joe,  be  it  known,  had  been  forbidden  the  college 
for  importing  a  sack  of  rats  into  the  inner  quadrangle,  upon 
the  turf  of  which  a  match  at  rat-killing  had  come  oil"  between 
the  terriers  of  two  gentlemen-commoners.  This  little  event 
might  have  passed  unnoticed,  but  that  Drysdale  had  bought 
from  Joe  a  dozen  of  the  slaughtered  rats,  and  nailed  them 
on  the  doors  of  the  four  college  tutors,  three  to  a  door ; 
whereupon  inquiry  had  been  made,  and  Joe  had  been  out- 
lawed. 

"  Oh,  please  Mr.  Drysdale,  sir,  I  just  watched  the  'ed 
porter,  sir,  across  to  the  buttery  to  get  his  mornin',  Pud  then 
I  tips  a  wink  to  the  under  porter  (pal  o'  mine,  sir,  the  under- 
porter)  and  makes  a  run  of  it  right  up." 

*'  Well,  you'll  be  quod'ed  if  you're  caught !  'Nov/  what  do 
you  want?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  Mr.  Diysdale,  sir,"  said  Joe,  in  his  most 
insinuating  tone,  "my  mate  hcv'  got  a  old  dog  brock,  sir, 
from  the  Heythrop  kennel,  and  Ilonble  Werrdiam,  sir,  of 
New  Inn  'AH,  sir,  he've  jist  been  down  our  yard  with  a  fight- 
ing chap  from  town,  Mr.  Drysdale — in  the  fancy,  sir,  he  is, 
and  hev  got  a  matter  of  tliree  dogs  down,  a  stoppin  at  Milky 
BiU's.  And  he  says,  says  he,  Mr.  Drysdale,  as  arra  one  of 
he's  doirs  '11  diuw  the  old  im  three  times,  while  arra  Oxford 


32  TOM   EEOWN  AT   OXFORD. 

dog  '11  draw  un  tM'ice,  and  Honble  Wernliam  chaffs  as  how 
he  '11  back  nn  for  a  fi'  pun  note  ; " — and  Joe  stopped  to 
caress  Jack,  who  was  fawning  on  him  as  if  he  undeidtood 
every  Avord. 

"Well,  Joe,  what  thon  ?"  said  Drysdale. 

"  So  you  see,  ]\Ir.  Drysdale,  sir,"  went  on  Joe,  fondling 
Jack's  muzzle,  "my  mate  says,  says  he,  'Jack's  the  dog 
as  can  draw  a  brock,'  says  he,  '  agin  any  Lonnun  dog  as  c-ver 
was  wlielped  ;  and  Mr.  Drysdale,'  says  he, '  aint  the  man  as  'd 
see  two  poor  chaps  bounced  out  of  their  honest  name  by 
ari'a  town  chap,  and  a  11'  pun  note  's  no  more  to  he,  for  the 
matter  o'  that,  then  to  Honble  Wernham  his  self,'  says  my 
mate." 

"  So  I'm  to  lend  you  Jack  for  a  match,  and  stand  the 
stakes  1 " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Drysdale,  sir,  that  was  what  my  mate  was  a 
sayin'." 

"  You're  cool  hands,  you  and  your  mate,"  said  Drysdale  ; 
"here,  take  a  drink,  and  get  out,  and  I'll  think  about  it.'' 
Drysdale  was  now  in  a  defiant  humour,  and  resolved  not  to 
let  Sanders  think  that  his  presence  could  keep  him  from  any 
act  of  folly  to  which  he  was  inclined. 

Joe  took  his  drink ;  and  just  then  several  men  came  in 
from  lecture,  and  drew  off"  Drysdale's  attention  from  Jack, 
who  quietly  followed  Joe  out  of  the  room,  Avhen  that  Avorthy 
disappeared.  Drysdale  only  laughetl  when  he  found  it  out, 
and  went  down  to  the  yard  that  afternoon  to  see  the  match 
between  the  London  dog  and  his  own  pet. 

"  How  in  the  world  are  youngsters  with  vinlimited  credit, 
plenty  of  ready  money,  and  fast  tastes,  to  be  kept  from 
making  fools  and  blackguards  of  themselves  up  here,"  thought 
Sanders  as  he  strolled  back  to  his  college.  And  it  is  a 
question  which  has  exercised  other  heads  besides  his,  and 
probably  is  a  long  way  yet  from  being  well  solved. 


CIIAPTEII  IV. 

THE   BT.  AMBROSE    BOAT-CLUB  :    ITS   MINISTRY 
AND    TSEIIl    BUDGET. 

We  left  our  hero,  a  short  time  back,  busily  engaged  on  his 
diuuL-r  conmions,  and  resolved  forthwith  to  make  great  friends 
with  Hardy.     It  never  occurred  to  bim  that  there  could  be 


TnE   ST.  AMBROSE   BOAT-OIUB.  S3 

the  slightest  difficulty  in  carrying  out  this  resolve.  After 
such  a  passage  as  they  two  had  had  together  that  afternoon, 
he  felt  that  tlie  usual  outworks  of  acquaintanceship  had  been 
cleared  at  a  bound,  and  looked  upon  Hardy  already  as  an  old 
friend  to  whom  he  could  talk  out  his  mind  as  fi-eely  as  he  had 
been  used  to  do  to  his  old  tutor  at  school,  or  to  Arthur.  Iklore- 
over,  as  there  were  already  several  things  in  his  head  which 
he  was  anxious  to  ventilate,  he  was  all  the  more  pleased  that 
chance  had  thrown  him  across  a  man  of  so  much  older  stand- 
ing than  himself,  and  one  to  whom  he  instLnctively  felt  that 
he  could  look  up. 

Accordingly,  after  grace  had  been  said,  and  he  saw  that 
Hardy  had  not  finished  his  dinner,  but  sat  down  again  when 
the  fellows  had  left  the  hall,  he  strolled  out,  meaning  to  wait 
for  Ids  victim  outside,  and  seize  upon  him  then  and  there  ;  so 
he  stopped  on  the  steps  outside  the  hall-door,  and,  to  pass  the 
time,  joined  himself  to  one  or  two  other  men  ^vith  whom  he 
had  a  speaking  acquaintance,  who  were  also  hanging  about, 
AYhile  they  ^vere  talking,  Hardy  came  out  of  hall,  and  Tom 
turned  and  .stepped  forward,  meaning  to  speak  to  him.  To 
his  utter  discomfiture.  Hardy  walked  quickly  away,  look- 
ing straight  before  him,  and  without  showing,  by  look  or 
gesture,  that  he  was  conscious  of  our  hero's  existence,  or  had 
ever  seen  him  before  in  his  life. 

Tom  was  so  taken  aback  that  he  made  no  effort  to  follow. 
He  just  glanced  at  his  companions  to  see  whether  they  had 
noticed  the  occurrence,  and  was  glad  to  see  that  they  had  not 
(being  deep  in  the  discussion  of  the  merits  of  a  new  hunter 
of  Simmons's,  which  one  of  them  had  been  riding) ;  so  he 
walked  away  b}^  himself  to  o-^nsider  what  it  could  mean.  But 
the  more  he  puzzled  about  it,  the  less  could  he  understand  it. 
Surely,  he  thought,  Hardy  must  have  seen  me  ]  and  yet,  if 
he  had,  why  did  he  not  recognise  me  1  My  cap  and  gown 
can't  be  such  a  disguise  as  all  that.  And  yet  common  decency 
must  have  led  him  to  ask  whether  I  was  any  the  worse  for 
my  ducking,  if  he  knew  me 

He  scouted  the  notion,  which  suggested  itself  once  or  twice, 
that  Hardy  meant  to  cut  him  ;  and  so,  not  being  able  to 
come  to  any  reasonable  conclusion,  suddeidy  bethought  him 
that  he  was  asked  to  a  wine-partv  ;  and,  putting  his  specula- 
tions aside  for  the  moment,  with  the  full  intention  neverthe- 
less of  clearing  up  the  mystery  as  soon  as  possible,  he  betook 
himself  to  the  rooms  of  his  entertainer. 

'I'hoy  were  fair-sized  rooms  in  the  second  quadrangle, 
tnrnislied  plainly  but  well,  so  far  as  T<im  conll  judge  j  but, 
as  tiiey  were  now  laid  out  for  the  wine-party,  they  had  lost 


34  TOII    CROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

all  individual  character  for  the  time.     Every  one  of  ^ls,  I 
suppose,  is  fond  of  studying  the  rooms,  chambers,  dens  in 
short,  of  whatever  sort  they  may  be,  of  our  friends  and  ac- 
quaintance— at  least,  I  know  that  I  myself  like  to  see  what 
sort  of  a  chair  a  man  sits  in,  where  he  puts  it,  what  books  lie 
or  stand  on  the  shelves  nearest  his  hand,  what  the  objects  are 
which  he  keeps  most  familiarly  before  liim,  in  that  particular 
nook  of  the  earth's  surface  in  which  he  is   most  at  home, 
where  he  pulls  off  his  coat,  collar,  and  boots,  and  gets  into 
an  old  easy  shooting- jacket,  i-nd  his  broadest  slippers.     Fine 
houses  and  Hne  rooms  have  little  attraction  for  most  men,  and 
those  who  have  the  finest  drawing-rooms  are  probably  the 
most  bored  by  them  ;  but  the  den  of  a  man  you  like,  or  are 
disposed  to  like,  has  the  strongest  and  the  strangest  attraction 
for  you.     However,  an  Oxford  undergraduate's  room,  set  out 
for  a  wine-party,  can  tell  you  nothing.    All  the  characteristics 
are  shoved  away  into  the  background,  and  there  is  nothing  to 
be  seen  but  a  long  mahogany  set  out  with  bottles,  glasses,  and 
dessert.    In  the  present  instance  the  prei)arations  for  festivity 
were  pretty  much  what  they  ought  to  be  :  good  sound  port 
and  sheny,  biscuits,  and  a  plate  or  two  of  nuts  and  dried 
fruits.     The  host,  who  sat  at  the  head  of  the  board,  was  one 
of  the  mainstays  of  the  College  boat-club.     He  was  treasurer 
of  the  club,  and  also  a  sort  of  boating  nurse,  wlio  looked-up 
and  trained  the  young  oars,  and  in  this  capacity  had  been  in 
command  of  the  freshmen's  four-oar,  in  which  Tom  had  been 
learning  his  rudiments.    He  was  a  heavy,  burly  man,  naturally 
awkward  in  his  movements,  but  gifted  with  a  sort  of  steady 
dogged  enthusiasm,  and  by  dint  of  hard  and  constant  train- 
ing had  made  himself  into  a  most  useful  oar,  fit  for  any  place 
in  the  middle  of  the  boat.     In  tlae  two  years  of  his  residence 
he  had  pulled  down  to  Sandford  every  day  excejit  Sundays,  and 
much  farther  whenever  he  could  get  anybody  to  accompany 
him.     He  was  the  most  good-natured  man  in  the  world,  very 
badly  dressed,  very  short-sighted,  and  called  everybody  "  old 
fellow."     His  name  was  simple  Smith,  generally  known  as 
Diogenes  Smith,  from  an  eccentric  habit  which  he  had  of 
making  an  easy  chair  of  his  hip-batk    Malicious  acquaintance 
declared  that  when  Smith  first  came  up,  and,  having  paid  tlie 
valuation  for  the  furniture  in  his  rooms,  came  to  inspect  the 
same,  the  tub  in  question  had  been  left  by  chance  in  the 
sitting-room,  and  that  Smith,  not  having  the  faintest  idea  of 
its  proi)er  use,  had  by  the  exercise  of  his  natural  reason  come 
to  tile  conclusion  that  it  could  only  be  meant  for  a  man  to  sit 
in,  and  so  had  kept  it  in  his  sitting-room,  and  taken  to  it 
as  an  arm-chair.     This  I  have  reason  to  believe  was  a  libeL 


THE    ST.  AlIBEOSE   BOAT-CLUB.  oO 

Certain  it  is,  however,  that  in  his  first  term  he  was  discovered 
sitting  solemnly  in  his  tub,  by  his  fire-side,  with  his  spectacles 
on,  playing  the  flute — the  only  other  recreation  besides  boating 
in  which  he  indulged ;  and  no  amount  of  quizzing  could  get 
him  out  of  the  habit.  When  alone,  or  with  only  one  or  two 
friends  in  liis  room,  he  still  occupied  the  tub  ;  and  declared 
that  it  was  the  most  perfect  of  seats  hitherto  invented,  and, 
above  all,  adapted  for  the  recreation  of  a  boating  man,  to 
whom  cushioned  seats  should  be  an  abomination.  He  was 
naturally  a  very  hospitable  man,  and  on  this  night  was  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  make  his  rooms  pleasant  to  all  comers,  as 
it  was  a  sort  of  opening  of  the  boating  season.  This  wine  of 
his  was  a  business  matter,  in  fact,  to  which  Diogenes  had 
invited  officially,  as  treasurer  of  the  boat-club,  every  man  who 
had  ever  shown  the  least  tendency  to  pulling, — many  with 
whom  he  had  scarcely  a  nodding  acquaintance.  For  j\liller, 
the  coxswain,  had  come  up  at  lust.  He  had  taken  his  B.A. 
degree  in  the  Michaelmas  term,  and  had  been  very  near 
starting  for  a  tour  in  the  East.  Upou  turning  the  matter 
over  in  his  mind,  however,  Miller  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  Palestine,  and  Egypt,  and  Greece  could  not  run  away, 
but  that,  unless  he  was  there  to  keep  matters  going,  the  St. 
Ambrose  boat  would  lose  the  best  chance  it  was  ever  likely 
to  have  of  getting  to  the  head  of  the  river.  So  he  had 
patriotically  resolved  to  reside  till  June,  read  divinity,  and 
coach  the  racing  crew ;  and  had  written  to  Diogenes  to  call 
together  the  whole  boating  interest  of  the  College,  that  they 
might  set  to  work  at  once  in  good  earnest.  Tom,  and  the 
three  or  four  other  freshmen  present,  were  duly  presented  to 
Miller  as  they  came  in,  who  looked  them  over  as  the  colonel 
of  a  crack  regiment  might  look  over  horses  at  Horncastle-f  lir, 
with  a  single  eye  to  their  lioue  and  muscle,  and  how  much 
work  might  be  got  out  of  them.  They  then  gathered  towards 
the  lower  end  of  the  long  table,  and  surveyed  the  celebrities 
at  the  upper  end  with  much  respect.  Miller,  the  coxswain, 
sat  on  the  host's  right  hand, — a  slight,  resolute,  fiery  little 
man,  with  curly  black  hair.  He  was  peculiarly  qualified  by 
nature  for  the  task  which  he  had  set  himself ;  and  it  takes 
no  mean  qualities  to  keep  a  boat's  crew  well  together  and  in 
order.  Perhaps  he  erred  a  little  on  the  side  of  over-strictness 
and  severity  ;  and  he  certainly  Avould  have  been  more  popular 
had  his  manner  been  a  thought  more  courteous  ;  but  the  men 
who  rebelled  most  ag.dnst  his  tyranny  grumblLugly  confessed 
fAint  he  was  a  first-rate  coxswain. 

A  very  dilferent  man  was  the  captain  of  the  boat,  who  sat 
opposite  to  i\Iiller  ;  altogether,  a  noble  specimen  of  a  very 

d2 


3G  TOM    BKOWN    AT    OXFORD. 

noble  type  of  our  couTitrymen.  Tall  and  strong  of  body ; 
courageous  and  even-tempered  ;  tolerant  of  all  men  ;  sparing 
of  speech,  but  ready  in  action  ;  a  thoroiighly  well-balanced, 
modest,  quiet  Englisliman  ;  one  of  those  who  do  a  good  stroke 
of  the  work  of  the  country  without  getting  much  credit  for 
it,  or  ever  becoming  aware  of  the  fact  ;  for  the  last  thing 
such  men  understand  is  how  to  blow  their  own  trumpets. 
He  was  perhaps  too  easy  for  the  captain  of  St.  Ambrose's 
boat-club  ;  at  any  rate,  Miller  was  always  telling  him  so.  But, 
if  he  was  not  strict  enough  with  others,  he  never  sjjared  liim- 
self,  and  was  as  good  as  three  men  in  tiie  boat  at  a  pinch. 

But  if  I  venture  on  more  introductions,  my  readers  will  get 
bewildered  ;  so  I  must  close  the  list,  much  as  I  should  like  to 
make  them  known  to  "fortis  Gyas  fortisque  Cloanthus,"  who 
sat  round  the  chiefs,  laughing  and  consulting,  and  speculating 
on  the  chances  of  the  coming  races.  No  ;  stay,  there  is  one 
other  man  they  must  make  room  for.  Here  he  comes,_ratliux 
late,  in  a  very  glossy  hat,  the  only  man  in  the  room  not  in 
cap  and  gown.  He  walks  up  and  takes  his  place  by  the  side 
of  the  host  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  a  handsome,  pale  man, 
with  a  dark,  quick  eye,  conscious  that  he  draws  attention 
wherever  he  goes,  and  apparently  of  opinion  that  it  is  his 
right. 

"  Vfho  is  that  who  has  just  come  in  in  beaver  ?  "  said  Tom, 
touching  the  next  man  to  him. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  knoAV  1  that's  Blake  ;  he's  the  most  won- 
derful fellow  in  Oxford,"  answered  his  neighbour. 

"  How  do  you  mean  1 "  said  Tom. 

"  Why,  he  can  do  everything  better  than  almost  anybody, 
and  without  any  trouble  at  all.  Miller  was  obliged  to  have 
him  in  the  boat  last  year,  though  he  never  trained  a  bit. 
Then  he's  in  the  eleven,  and  is  a  wonderful  rider,  and  tennis- 
player,  and  shot." 

"  Ay,  and  he's  so  awfully  clever  Avith  it  all,"  joined  in  the 
man  on  the  other  side.  "  He'll  be  a  safe  first,  though  I  don't 
belierve  he  reads  more  than  you  or  I.  He  can  write  songs, 
too,  as  fast  as  you.  can  talk  nearly,  and  sings  them  won 
dei'fully." 

"  Is  he  of  our  College,  then  1 " 

"Yes,  of  course,  or  he  couldn't  have  been  in  our  boat  Luit 
year." 

'But  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  him  in  chapel  or  hall." 

"  No,  I  daresay  not.  He  hardly  ever  goes  to  either,  and 
yet  he  manages  never  to  get  hauled  up  much,  no  one  knows 
how.  He  never  gets  up  now  till  the  afternoon,  and  sits  up 
nearly  all  night  playing  cards  with   the  fastest  fellows,  or 


THE   ST.  AMBEOSi   BOAT-CLUB.  M7 

going  round  singmg  glees  at  three  or  four  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

Tom  sipped  liis  port  and  looked  with  great  interest  at  tlie 
admirable  Crichtou  of  St.  Ambrose's ;  and,  after  watching 
him  a  few  miiuites,  said  in  a  low  voice  to  his  neighbour, — 

"  How  wretched  he  looks  !  I  never  saw  a  sadder  face." 

Poor  Blake !  one  can't  help  calling  him  "  poor,"  although 
he  himself  would  have  winced  at  it  more  than  at  any  otlier 
name  you  could  have  called  him.  You  might  have  admired, 
feared,  or  wondered  at  him,  and  he  would  have  been  pleased  ; 
the  object  of  his  life  was  to  raise  such  feelings  in  his  neigh- 
bours ;  but  pity  was  the  last  which  he  would  have  liked  to 
excite. 

He  was  indeed  a  wonderfully  gifted  fellow,  full  of  all  sorts 
of  energy  and  talent,  and  power  and  tenderness  ;  and  yet,  as 
his  face  told  only  too  truly  to  any  one  who  watched  him  when 
he  was  exerting  himself  in  society,  one  of  the  most  wretched 
men  in  the  College.  He  had  a  passion  for  success — for  beat- 
ing everybody  else  in  whatever  he  took  in  hand,  and  that, 
too,  Avithout  seeming  to  make  any  great  effort  himself.  The 
doing  a  thing  well  and  thorougldy  gave  him  no  satisfaction 
unless  he  could  feel  that  he  was  doing  it  better  and  more 
easily  than  A,  B,  or  C,  and  that  they  felt  and  acknowledged 
this.  He  liad  had  his  full  swing  of  success  for  two  years, 
and  now  the  Nemesis  was  coming. 

For,  although  not  an  extravagant  man,  many  of  the 
pursuits  in  which  he  had  eclipsed  all  rivals  were  far  beyond 
the  means  of  any  but  a  rich  one,  and  Blake  was  not  rich. 
He  had  a  foir  allowance,  but  by  the  end  of  his  first  year  was 
considerably  in  debt,  and,  at  the  time  we  are  speaking  of,  the 
whole  pack  of  Oxford  tradesmen  into  whose  books  he  had 
got  (having  smelt  out  the  leanness  of  his  expectations),  were 
upon  him,  besieging  him  for  payment.  Tliis  miserable  and 
constant  annoyance  was  wealing  his  soul  out.  This  was  the 
reason  why  his  oak  was  sported,  and  he  was  never  seen  till 
the  afternoons,  and  turned  night  into  day.  He  was  too  proud 
to  come  to  an  understanding  with  his  persecutors,  even  had  it 
been  possible  ;  and  now,  at  his  sorest  need,  his  whole  scheme 
of  life  was  failing  him ;  his  love  of  success  was  turning  into 
ashes  in  his  mouth ;  he  felt  much  more  disgust  than  pleasure 
at  his  triumphs  over  other  men,  and  yet  the  habit  of  striving 
for  such  successes,  notwithstanding  its  irksomeness,  was  too 
strong  to  be  resisted. 

Poor  Blake  !  he  was  living  on  from  hand  to  mouth,  flash- 
ing out  with  all  his  old  brilliancy  and  power,  and  forcing 
himself  to  take  the  lead  in  whatever  company  ho  might  be ; 


38  TOM   BROWN   AT    OXFORD. 

but  utterly  lonely  and  depressed  when  by  himself — reading 
feverislily  in  secret,  in  a  desperate  ellbrt  to  retrieve  all  by 
high  honours  and  a  fellowship.  As  Tom  said  to  his  neij^h- 
bour,  there  was  no  sadder  face  than  his  to  be  seen  in  Ox- 
ford- 

And  yet  at  this  very  ■ndne-party  he  was  the  life  of  every- 
thing, as  he  sat  up  there  between  Diogenes — whom  he  kept 
in  a  constant  sort  of  mild  epileptic  tit,  from  laughter,  and 
wme  going  the  wrong  way  (for  whenever  Diogenes  raised  his 
glass  Ijlake  shot  him  with  some  jo]i;e) — and  the  Captain, 
who  watched  liim  with  the  most  undisguised  admiration.  A 
singular  contrast,  the  two  men  !  Miller,  though  Blake  was 
the  torment  of  his  hfe,  relaxed  after  the  tirst  quarter  of  an 
hour  ;  and  our  hero,  by  the  same  time,  gave  himself  creelit 
for  being  a  much  greater  ass  than  he  was,  for  having  ever 
thought  Blake's  face  a  sad  one. 

When  the  room  was  quite  full,  and  enough  wine  had  been 
drunk  to  open  the  hearts  of  the  guests,  Diogenes  rose  on  a 
signal  from  Miller,  and  opened  the  budget.  The  financial 
statement  was  a  satisfactory  one  ;  the  club  was  almost  free 
of  debt ;  and,  comparing  their  position  with  that  of  other 
colleges,  Diogenes  advised  that  they  might  fairly  burden 
themselves  a  httle  more,  aud  then,  if  they  would  stand  a 
whip  of  ten  shillmgs  a  man,  they  might  have  a  new  boat, 
which  he  believed  they  ah  would  agree  had  become  necessary. 
Miller  suj)ported  the  new  boat  in  a  pungent  little  speech  ;  and 
the  Captain,  when  ajipealed  to,  nodded  and  said  he  thought 
tliey  must  have  one.  So  the  small  supplies  and  the  large 
addition  to  the  club  debt  were  voted  unanimously,  and  tiie 
Captain,  IMiller,  and  Blake,  who  had  many  notions  as  to  the 
flooring,  lines,  and  keel  of  a  racing  boat,  were  appointed  to 
order  and  superintend  the  building. 

Soon  afterwards,  coffee  came  in  and  cigars  were  lighted ; 
a  large  section  of  the  party  went  olf  to  play  pool,  others  to 
stroll  about  the  streets,  others  to  wliist ;  a  few,  let  us  hope, 
to  their  own  rooms  to  read  ;  but  these  latter  were  a  sadly 
small  minority  even  in  the  quietest  of  St.  Ambrose  par-ties. 

Tom,  who  was  fascinated  by  the  heroes  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  sat  steadily  on,  sidling  up  towards  them  as  the  inter- 
mediate places  became  vacant,  and  at  last  attained  the  next 
chair  but  one  to  the  Ca^jtain,  where  for  the  time  he  sat  in 
perfect  bliss.  Blake  and  Miller  were  telling  boating  stories 
of  the  Henley  and  Thames  regattas,  the  latter  of  wdiich  had 
been  lately  started  with  great  eclat ;  and  from  these  greai 
yeai'ly  events,  and  the  deeds  of  prowess  done  thereat,  the  tuik 
came  gradually  round  to  the  next  races. 


THE   ST.  AMBROSE   BOAT-CLUB.  39 

"Xow,  Captain,"  said  Miller,  suddenly,  "have  you  thought 
yet  what  new  men  we  are  to  try  in  the  crew  this  year  1  " 

"No,  'pen  my  honour  1  haven't,"  said  the  Captain,  "I'm 
reading,  and  have  no  time  to  spare.  Besides,  after  all,  Ihere'a 
lots  of  time  to  think  about  it.  Here,  we're  only  half  tlirough 
Lent  term,  and  the  races  don't  begin  till  the  end  of  Easter 
term." 

"  It  won't  do,"  said  Miller,  "  we  must  get  the  crew  to- 
gether this  term." 

"  Well,  you  and  Smith  put  your  heads  together  and  manage 
it,"  said  the  Captain.  "  I  will  go  down  any  da}'',  and  as  often 
as  you  like,  at  two  o'elock." 

"Let's  see,"  said  j\Iiller  to  Smith,  "how  many  of  the  old  crew 
have  we  left?" 

"  Five,  counting  Blake,"  answered  Diogenea. 

"Counting  me!  well,  that's  cool,"  laughed  Bliko;  "you 
old  tub  haunting  flute-player,  why  am  I  not  to  bf  counted?" 

"  You  never  will  train,  you  see,"  said  Diogenes. 

"  Smith  is  quite  right,"  said  Miller  ;  "  there's  no  counting 
on  you,  Blake.  Now,  be  a  good  fellow,  and  promise  to  bo 
regular  this  year." 

"I'll  promise  to  do  my  work  in  a  race,  wdiich  is  more  than 
some  of  your  best-trained  men  will  do,"  said  Blake,  rather 
piqued. 

"  Well,  you  know  what  I  think  on  the  subject,"  said  Miller  ; 
"  but  who  have  w^e  got  for  the  other  three  places  ? " 

"There's  Drysdale  would  do,"  said  Diogenes  ;  "I  heanl  ho 
was  a  capital  oar  at  Eton ;  and  so,  though  I  don't  know  lan\, 
I  managed  to  get  him  once  down  last  term.  He  would  do 
famously  for  No.  2,  or  No.  3  if  he  would  p'.ili." 

"  Do  you  think  he  will,  Bluke  ?  Yuu  knoAV  him,  I  suppose," 
said  IMiller. 

"  Yes,  I  know  him  well  enough,"  said  Blake  ;  and,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  added,  "I  don't  think  you  will  get  him  to  train 
much." 

"Well,  we  must  try,"  said  Miller.  "Now,  who  else  is 
there?" 

Smith  went  through  four  or  five  names,  at  each  of  which 
Miller  shook  his  head. 

"  Any  promising  freshmen  ? "  said  he  at  last. 

"None  better  than  Brown  here,"  said  Smith;  "I  think 
he'll  do  well,  if  he  will  only  work,  and  stand  being  coached,' 

"Have  you  ever  pulled  unich  ?"  said  Miller. 

"No,"  said  Tom,  "never  till  this  last  month — since  I've 
been  up  here." 

"Ail  the  better,"  said  Miller;    "now,  Ca2)tain.   you  li<:ar; 


40  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFOKD. 

we  may  probably  have  to  go  in  with  three  ncAv  hands  ;  thej 
must  get  into  your  stroke  this  term,  or  wo  shall  be  nowhere." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Captain  ;  "  I'll  give  from  two  till  five 
any  days  you  like." 

"And  now  let's  go  and  have  one  pool,"  said  Blake,  getting 
up.  "  Come,  Captain,  just  one  little  pool  alter  all  this 
business." 

Diogenes  insisted  on  staying  to  play  his  flute  ;  Miller  was 
engaged ;  but  the  Captain,  with  a  little  coaxing,  was  led  away 
by  Blake,  and  good-naturedly  usked  Tom  to  accomi)any  them, 
when  he  saw  that  he  was  looking  as  if  he  would  like  it.  So 
the  three  went  off  to  the  billiard-rooms ;  Tom  in  such  spirits 
at  the  chance  of  being  tried  in  the  crew,  that  he  hardly  noticed 
the  exceedingly  bad  exchange  which  he  had  involuntarily 
made  of  his  new  cap  and  gown  for  a  third-year  cap  with  the 
board  broken  into  several  j^ieces,  and  a  fusty  old  gown  which 
had  been  about  college  probably  for  ten  generations.  Under- 
graduate morality  in  the  matter  of  caps  and  gowns  seems  to  be 
founded  on  the  celebrated  maxim,  "  Propricte  c'est  le  vol." 

They  found  the  St.  Ambrose  pool-room  full  of  the  fast  set ; 
and  Tom  enjoyed  his  game  much,  though  his  three  lives  were 
soon  disposed  of.  The  Captain  and  Blake  were  the  last  lives 
on  the  board,  and  divided  the  pool  at  Blake's  suggestion.  He 
had  scarcely  nerve  for  playing  out  a  single-handed  match  with 
such  an  iron-nerved,  steady  piece  of  humanity  as  the  Captaiu, 
though  he  was  the  more  brdliant  player  of  the  two.  The  party 
then  broke  u]),  and  Tom  returned  to  his  rooms  ;  and,  when  he 
was  by  hinrself  again,  his  thoughts  reciu-red  to  Hardy.  How 
odd,  he  thought,  that  they  never  mentioned  him  for  the  boat ! 
Could  he  have  done  anything  to  be  ashamed  of?  How  was 
it  that  nobody  seemed  to  know  him,  and  he  to  know  nobody  1 

Most  readers,  I  doubt  nut,  Avill  think  our  hero  very  green 
for  being  puzzled  at  so  simple  a  matter ;  and,  no  doubt,  the 
steps  in  the  social  scale  in  England  are  very  clearly  marked 
out,  and  we  all  come  to  the  appreciation  of  the  gradations 
sooner  or  later.  But  our  hero's  previous  education  must  bo 
taken  into  consideration.  He  had  not  been  instructed  at 
home  to  worship  mere  conventional  distinctions  of  rank  or 
wealth,  and  had  gone  to  a  school  which  was  not  frequented  by 
persons  of  rank,  and  where  no  one  knew  whether  a  bov  was 
heu"  to  a  principalitj',  or  would  have  to  iignt  his  own  way  in 
the  world.  So  he  was  rather  taken  by  surprise  at  what  he 
found  to  be  the  state  of  things  at  St,  Ambrose's  and  didn't 
easily  reahze  it. 


HAKDY,    THE    SERVITOR.  41 

CHAPTER  V. 

HAKDT,    THE   SERVITOR. 

It  was  not  long  before  Tom  had  effected  his  object  In  part. 
That  is  to  saj'^,  he  had  caught  Hardy  several  times  in  tlie 
Quadrangle  coming  out  of  Lecture,  Hall,  or  Chapel,  and  had 
fastened  himself  upon  him  ;  often  walking  with  him  even  up 
to  the  door  of  his  rooms.  But  there  matters  ended.  Hardy 
was  very  civil  and  gentlemanly  ;  he  even  seemed  pleased  with 
the  volunteered  companionship  •  but  there  was  undoubtedly 
a  coolness  about  him  which  Tom  could  not  make  out.  But, 
as  he  only  liked  Hardy  more,  the  more  lie  saw  of  him,  he  very 
soon  made  up  his  mind  to  break  ground  himself,  and  to  make 
a  dash  at  any  rate  for  something  more  than  a  mere  speaking 
acquaintance. 

One  evening  he  had  as  usual  walked  from  Hall  with  Hardy 
up  to  his  door.  They  stopped  a  moment  talking,  and  then 
Hardy,  hall-opening  the  door,  said,  "Well,  good-night; 
perhaps  we  shall  meet  on  the  river  to-morrow,"  and  was  going 
in,  when  Tom,  looking  him  in  the  face,  blurted  out,  "  I  say, 
Hardy,  I  wish  you'd  let  me  come  in  and  sit  with  you  a  bit." 

"  I  never  ask  a  man  of  our  college  into  my  rooms,"  answered 
the  other,  "but  come  in  by  all  means  if  you  like;"  and  so 
they  entered. 

The  room  was  the  worst,  both  in  situation  and  furniture, 
wliich  Tom  had  yet  seen.  It  was  on  the  ground  floor,  with 
only  one  window,  which  looked  out  into  a  back  yard,  where 
were  the  offices  of  the  college.  All  day,  and  up  to  nine  o'clock 
at  night,  the  yard  and  offices  were  filled  with  scouts ;  boys 
cleaning  boots  and  knives ;  bed-makers  emptying  slops  and 
tattling  scandal ;  scullions  peeling  potatoes  and  listening ; 
and  the  butchers'  and  green-grocers'  men  who  supply  the 
college,  and  loitered  about  to  gossip  and  get  a  taste  of  the 
college  ale  before  going  about  their  business.  The  room  was 
large,  but  low  and  close,  and  the  floor  uneven.  The  furniture 
did  not  add  to  the  cheerfulness  of  the  apartment.  It  consisted 
of  one  large  table  in  the  middle,  covered  with  an  old  chequered 
table-cloth,  and  an  Oxford  table  near  the  window,  on  which 
lay  half-a-dozen  books  with  writing  materials.  A  couple  of 
plain  Windsor  chairs  occupied  the  two  sides  of  the  fireplace, 
and  half-a-dozen  common  wooden  chairs  stood  against  tlio 
opposite  wall,  three  on  each  side  of  a  pretty-well-filled  book- 
case ;  while  an  old  rickety  sofa,  covered  with  soiled  chintz, 
loiiuod  against  the  wall  which  fronted  the  window,  as  if  to 


42  TOM    BKOWN    AI    OTCFOKD. 

rest  its  lame  leg.  The  carpet  and  rug  were  dingy,  and  de- 
cidedly the  woi'se  for  wear ;  and  the  college  had  evidently 
uegk'ctcd  to  paper  the  room  or  whitewash  the  ceiling  for 
several  generations.  On  the  mantel-piece  reposed  a  few  long 
clay  pipes,  and  a  brown  earthenware  receptacle  for  tobacco, 
together  with  a  japanned  tin  case,  shaped  like  a  figure  of 
eight,  the  use  of  which  puzzled  Tom  exceedingly.  One 
modestly -framed  drawing  of  a  10-gun  brig  hung  above,  and 
at  the  side  of  the  fireplace  a  sword  and  belt.  All  this  lom 
had  time  to  remark  by  the  lighi  of  the  fire,  which  was  burnuig 
brightly,  while  his  host  produced  a  couj^le  of  brass  candlesticks 
from  his  cujjboard  and  lighted  up,  and  drew  the  curtain  before 
his  window.  Then  Tom  instinctively  left  oif  taking  his  notes, 
for  fear  of  hurtiug  the  other's  feelings  (just  as  he  would  have 
gone  on  doing  so,  and  making  remarks  on  everything,  had  the 
rooms  been  models  of  taste  and  comfort),  and  throwing  his 
cap  and  gown  on  the  sofa,  sat  down  on  one  of  the  "Windsor 
chairs. 

"  Wliat  a  jolly  chair,"  said  he  ;  "  where  do  you  get  them  1 
I  should  like  to  buy  one." 

"  Yes,  they're  comfortable  enough,"  said  Hardy,  "  but  the 
reason  I  have  them  is,  that  thej^'re  the  chea})est  arm-chairs 
one  can  get.  1  like  an  arm-chair,  and  can't  allbid  to  have  any 
other  than  these." 

Tom  dropped  the  subject  of  the  chairs  at  once,  following 
his  instinct  again,  which,  sad  to  say,  was  already  teaching 
him  that  poverty  is  a  disgrace  to  a  Briton,  and  that,  until  you 
know  a  man  thoroughly,  you  must  always  seem  to  assume 
that  he  is  the  owner  of  unlimited  ready  money.  Somehow 
or  another,  he  began  to  feel  embarrassed,  and  couldn't  think 
of  anything  to  say,  as  his  host  took  down  the  pipes  and 
tobacco  from  the  mantel-piece,  and  placed  them  on  the  table. 
However,  anything  was  better  than  silence;  so  he  began 
again. 

"Very  good-sized  rooms  yours  seem,"  said  he,  taking  up  a 
pipe  mechanically. 

"  Big  enough,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  answered  the  other, 
"  but  very  dark  and  noisy  in  the  day-time." 

"  So  I  should  think,"  said  Tom  ;  "do  you  know,  I'd  sooner, 
now,  have  my  freshman's  rooms  up  in  the  garrets.  I  wonder 
you  don't  change." 

"I  get  these  for  nothing,"  said  his  host,  puttiug  his  Ion" 
clay  to  the  candle,  and  puffing  out  volumes  of  smoke.  Tom 
felt  more  and  more  unequal  to  the  situation,  and  filled  his 
pipe  in  silence.  The  first  whiff  maeie  him  cmigh,  as  b9 
Wiusn't  used  to  the  fragrant  M'eed  in  this  shape. 


HARDY,   THE   SERVITOR.  43 

'■'I'm  afraid  you  don't  smoke  tobacco,"  said  liis  host  fiom 
behind  his  own  cloud  ;  "  shall  I  go  out  and  fetch  you  a 
cigar?     I  don't  smoke  them  myself;  I  can't  afford  it." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Tom,  blushing  for  sliame,  as  if  he 
had  come  there  only  to  insult  his  host,  and  wishing  himself 
heartily  out  of  it,  "  I've  got  my  case  here ;  and  the  fact  is,  1 
will  smoke  a  cigar  if  you'll  allow  me,  for  I'm  not  up  to  pipes 
yet.  I  wish  you'd  take  some,"  he  went  on,  emptying  hia 
cigars  on  to  the  table. 

"  Thank'ee,"  replied  his  host,  "  I  prefer  a  pipe.  And  now 
what  will  you  have  to  drink  1  I  don't  keep  wine,  but  I  can 
get  a  bottle  of  anything  you  like  from  the  common  room. 
That's  one  of  otcr  privileges,"-  he  gave  a  grim  chuckle  as  ha 
emphasised  the  word  "  our." 

"Who  on  earth  are  we?"  thought  Tom;  "servitors,  I 
suppose,"  fur  he  knew  already  that  undergraduates  in  general 
could  not  get  wine  from  the  college  cellars. 

"  I  don't  care  a  sti'aw  about  wine,"  said  he,  feeling  very  hot 
about  the  ears  ;  "  a  glass  of  beer,  or  anything  you  have  here — 
or  tea." 

"  Well,  I  can  give  you  a  pretty  good  glass  of  whiskey," 
said  his  host,  going  to  the  clipboard,  and  producing  a  black 
bottle,  two  tumblers  of  different  sizes,  some  little  wooden 
toddy  ladles,  and  sugar  in  an  old  cracked  glass. 

Tom  vowed  that,  if  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world  he 
liked  more  than  another,  it  was  whiskey ;  and  began  measuring 
out  the  liquor  carefully  into  his  tumbler,  and  rolling  it  round 
between  his  eye  and  the  candle,  and  smelling  it,  to  show  what 
a  treat  it  was  to  hhn ;  while  his  host  put  the  kettle  on  the 
fire,  to  ascertain  that  it  was  quite  boiling,  and  then,  as  it 
spluttered  and  fizzed,  filled  up  the  two  tumblers,  and  restored 
it  to  its  place  on  the  hob. 

Tom  swallowed  some  of  the  mixture,  which  nearly  made 
him  cough  again — for,  though  it  was  very  good,  it  was  also 
very  potent.  However,  by  an  effort  he  managed  to  swallow 
liis  cough  ;  he  would  about  as  soon  have  lost  a  little  finger  as  let 
it  out.  Then,  to  his  great  relief,  his  luist  took  the  pipe  from 
his  lips,  and  ijKjuired,  "How  do  you  like  Oxford]" 

"  I  hardly  know  yet,"  said  Tom  ;  "the  first  few  days  T  was 
delighted  with  going  about  and  seeing  the  buildmgs,  and  find- 
ing out  who  had  lived  in  each  of  the  old  colleges,  and  potLering 
about  m  the  liodleian,  and  fancying  I  should  like  to  be  a  great 
Echolar.  Then  I  met  several  old  schoolfellows  going  about, 
who  are  up  at  other  colleges,  and  went  to  their  rooms  and 
talked  over  old  times.  But  none  of  my  very  intimate  friends 
are  up  yet,   and   unless  you  care  very  much   about  a  maa 


41  TOM   BEOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

already,  you  don't  seem  to  be  likely  to  get  intimate  with  him 
up  here,  unless  he  is  at  your  own  college," 
He  paused,  as  if  expecting  an  answer. 
"  I  daresay  not,"  said  Hardy  ;  "  but  I  never  was  at  a  public 
school,  unluckily,  and  so  am  no  judge." 

"  AVell,  then,  as  to  the  college  life,"  went  on  Tom,  "  it's  all 
very  well  as  far  as  it  goes.  There's  plenty  of  liberty,  and 
good  food.  And  the  men  seem  nice  fellows — many  of  them, 
at  least,  as  far  as  I  can  judge.  But  I  cao't  say  that  I  like  it 
as  much  as  I  liked  oar  school  life," 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Hardy.  "  VHij  not?" 
"  Oh  !  I  hardly  know,"  said  Tom  laughing  ;  "  I  don't  seem 
as  if  I  had  anything  to  do  here ;  that's  one  reason,  I  think. 
And  then,  you  see,  at  Kugby  I  was  rather  a  great  man. 
There  one  had  a  share  in  the  ruling  of  300  boys,  and  a  good 
deal  of  responsibility ;  but  here  one  has  only  just  to  take 
care  of  oneself,  and  keep  out  of  scrapes ;  and  tliat's  what  I 
never  could  do.  What  do  you  think  a  fellow  ought  to  do, 
DOW,  up  here  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  see  much  difficulty  in  that,"  said  his  host, 
smiling ;  "  get  up  your  lectures  well,  to  begin  Avith." 

"  But  my  lectm-es  ai'e  a  farce,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I've  done  all 
the  books  over  and  over  again.  They  don't  take  me  an  hour 
a  day  to  get  up." 

"  Well,  then,  set  to  work  reading  something  regularly — 
reading  for  your  degree,  for  instance." 

"Oil,  hang  it !  I  can't  look  so  far  forward  as  that ;  I 
slia'n't  bo  going  up  for  three  years." 

"  You  can't  begin  too  early.  You  might  go  and  talk  to 
your  college-tutor  about  it." 

"  So  I  did,"  said  Tom  ;  "  at  least  I  meant  to  do  it.  For  he 
asked  me  and  two  other  freslimcn  to  breakfast  the  other 
morning,  and  I  was  going  to  open  out  to  him  ;  but  when  I 
got  there  I  was  quite  shut  up.  He  never  looked  one  of  us 
in  the  face,  and  talked  in  set  sentences,  and  was  cold,  and 
formal,  and  condescending.  The  only  bit  of  advice  he  gave 
us  was  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  boating — just  the  one 
thing  which  I  feel  a  real  interest  in.  I  couldn't  get  out  a 
word  of  what  I  wanted  to  say." 

"It  is  unlucky,  certainly,  that  our  present  tutors  take  so 
little  interest  in  anything  which  the  men  care  about.  But  it 
is  more  from  shjTiess  than  anything  else,  that  manner  which 
you  noticed.  You  may  be  sure  that  he  was  more  wretched 
and  embarrassed  than  any  of  you," 

"  VVeU,  but  now  I  should  really  like  to  know  what  you 
did  yourself,"  said  Tom;  "you  are  the  only  man  of  much 


HARDY,   THE   SERVITOR.  45 

older  standing  than  myself  whom  I  know  at  all  yet — I  mean 
I  don't  know  anybody  else  well  enough  to  talk  about  this 
sort  of  thing  to  them.  What  did  you  do,  now,  besides 
learning  to  pull,  in  your  first  year  t  " 

"  1  had  learnt  to  pull  before  I  came  up  here,"  said  Hardy. 
"  I  really  hardly  remember  Avhnt  I  did  besides  read.  You 
gee,  I  came  up  with  a  definite  purpose  of  reading.  IMy  fatlier 
was  very  anxious  that  I  should  be  a  good  scholar.  Then  my 
position  in  the  college  and  my  poverty  naturally  kept  me  out 
of  many  things  which  other  men  do." 

Tom  flushed  again  at  the  ugly  word,  but  not  so  much  as  at 
first.  Hardy  couldn't  mind  the  subject,  or  he  would  never 
be  forcing  it  up  at  every  turn,  he  thought. 

"  You  wouldn't  think  it,"  he  began  again,  harping  on  the 
same  string,  "  but  I  can  hardly  tell  you  how  I  miss  the  sort 
of  responsibility  I  was  talking  to  you  about.  I  have  no 
doubt  I  shall  get  the  vacuum  lilled  up  before  long,  but  for 
the  life  of  me  1  can't  see  how  yet." 

"  You  will  be  a  very  lucky  fellow  if  j'ou  don't  find  it  quite 
as  much  as  you  can  do  to  keep  yourself  in  order  up  here. 
It  is  about  the  toughest  part  of  a  man's  life,  I  do  believe, 
the  time  he  has  to  spend  here.  My  university  life  has  been 
so  different  altogether  fiom  what  yours  will  be,  that  my 
experience  isn't  likely  to  benefit  you." 

"  I  wish  you  would  try  me,  though,"  said  Tom  ;  "  you 
don't  know  what  a  teachable  sort  of  fellow  I  am,  if  anybody 
will  take  me  the  right  way.  You  taught  me  to  scull,  you 
know  ;  or  at  least  put  me  in  the  Avay  to  learn.  But  sculling, 
and  rowing,  and  cricket,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  Avith  such 
reading  as  I  am  likely  to  do,  won't  be  enough.  I  feel  sure  of 
that  already." 

"I  don't  think  it  will,"  said  ILardy.  "No  amount  of 
physical  or  mental  work  will  fill  the  vacuum  you  were  talking 
of  just  now.  It  is  the  empty  house  swept  and  garnished, 
which  the  boy  might  have  had  glimpses  of,  but  the  man  finds 
yawning  within  him,  and  which  must  be  lilled  somehow.  It's 
a  pretty  good  three  years'  work  to  learn  how  to  keep  the  devils 
out  of  it,  more  or  less,  by  the  time  you  take  your  degree.  At 
least  I  have  found  it  so." 

Hardy  rose  and  took  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  liis  room. 
He  was  astonished  at  finding  himself  talking  so  unreservedly 
to  one  of  whom  he  Icnew  so  little,  and  half-wished  the  words 
recalled.  He  lived  much  alone,  and  thought  himself  morbid 
and  too  self-conscious;  why  should  he  be  filling  a  youngster's 
head  with  puzzles  1  How  did  he  know  that  they  Avere  thiuL 
ing  of  the  same  tiling  1 


46  TOM   BEOWN    AT    OXKOilD. 

But  the  s})oken  word  cannot  be  recallt;d ;  it  must  go  on  its 
way  for  good  or  o.vil ;  and  this  one  set  the  hearer  staring  iuto 
the  ashes,  and  putting  many  things  together  in  his  head. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  he  broke  silence,  but  at  last  he 
gathered  up  his  tlioughts,  and  said,  "Well,  I  hope  I  sha'n't 
shirk  when  the  time  comes.  You  don't  think  a  fellow  need 
sluit  himself  up,  though  ]  I'm  sure  1  shouldn't  be  any  the 
better  for  that." 

"No,  I  don't  think  you  would,"  said  Hardy. 
"Because,  you  see,"  Tom  ?'ent  on,  waxing  bolder  and 
more  confidential,  "if  I  were  to  take  to  mophig  by  myself,  I 
shouldn't  read  as  you  or  any  sensible  fellow  would  do;  I 
know  that  well  enough.  I  should  just  begin,  sitting  with 
my  legs  up  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  looking  into  my  own 
inside.  I  see  you  are  laughing,  but  you  know  what  I  mean, 
don't  you,  now]" 

"  Yes ;  staring  into  the  vnf:uum  you  wore  talking  of  just 
now;  it  all  comes  back  to  that,'  said  Hardy. 

"\YeU,  perhaps  it  does,"  said  Tom;  "and  I  don't  believe  it 
does  a  fellow  a  bit  of  good  to  be  thinking  about  himseK  and 
his  own  doings." 

"Only  he  can't  help  himself,"  said  Hardy.  "Let  him 
throw  himself  as  he  will  into  aU  that  is  going  on  up  here, 
after  all  he  must  be  alone  for  a  great  part  of  his  time — all 
night  at  any  rate — and  when  he  gets  his  oak  sported,  it's  all 
up  with  him.  He  must  be  looking  more  or  less  into  his  own 
inside,  as  you  call  it." 

"  Then  1  hope  he  won't  find  it  as  ugly  a  business  as  I  do. 
Hhe  does,  I'm  sure  he  can't  be  worse  employed." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Hardy;  "he  can't  learn  anything 
worth  learning  in  any  other  way." 

"Oh,  I  like  that!"  said  Tom;  "it's  worth  learning  hovr  to 
ph'.y  tennis,  and  how  to  speak  the  truth.  You  can't  learn 
either  by  thinking  about  yourself  ever  so  much." 

"  ^'ou  must  know  the  truth  before  you  can  epeak  it,"  said 
Hardy. 

"So  you  always  do  in  plenty  of  time.'' 
"How?"  said  Hardy. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom;  "by  a  sort  of  instinct,  I 
sup])Ose.  I  never  in  my  life  felt  any  doubt  about  what  1 
ought  to  say  or  do;  did  you?" 

"Woll,  yours  is  a  good,  comfortable,  working  belief,  at  any 
rate,"  said  Hardy,  smiling;  "and  1  should  advise  you  to  hold 
on  to  it  as  long  as  you  can." 

"  But  you  don't  think  I  can  for  very  long,  eh?" 

"  No  ;  l)ut  men  are  very  dilferent.     There's  no  saying.      li 


HAIIDY,    THE    SERVITOR.  47 

you  were  going  to  get  out  of  the  self-dissecting  business  alto- 
gether thoixgh,  why  should  you  have  brought  the  subject  up 
at  all  to-night]     It  looks  awkward  for  you,  doesn't  it?" 

Tom  began  to  feel  rather  forlorn  at  this  suggestion,  and 
probably  betrayed  it  in  his  face,  for  Hardy  changed  the  sub- 
ject suddenly. 

"How  do  you  get  on  in  the  boat?  I  saw  you  going  down 
to-day,  and  thought  the  time  much  better." 

Tom  felt  greatly  relieved,  as  he  was  beginning  to  find  him- 
self in  rather  deep  water:  so  he  rushed  into  boating  with 
great  zest,  and  the  two  chatted  on  very  pleasantly  ou  that  and 
other  like  matters. 

The  college  clock  struck  during  a  pause  in  their  talk,  and 
Tom  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Eiglit  o'clock,  I  declare,"  he  said;  "why  I  must  haA^e 
been  here  more  than  two  hours.  I'm  afraid,  now,  you  have 
been  wanting  to  work,  and  I  have  kept  you  fi'om  it  with  my 
talk." 

"No,  it's  Saturday  night.  Besides,  I  don't  get  much 
society  that  I  care  about,  and  so  I  enjoy  it  all  the  more. 
Won't  you  stop  and  have  some  tea?" 

Tom  gladly  consented,  and  his  host  produced  a  somewhat 
dilapidated  set  of  crockery^  and  proceeded  to  brew  the  drink 
least  appreciated  at  St.  Ambrose's.  Tom  watched  him  in 
silence,  much  exercised  in  his  mind  as  to  what  manner  of 
man  he  had  fallen  upon ;  very  much  astonished  at  himself 
for  having  opened  out  so  freely,  and  feeling  a  desire  to  know 
more  of  Hardy,  not  unmixed  with  a  sort  of  nervousness  as  to 
how  he  was  to  accomplish  it. 

When  Hardy  sat  down  again  and  begax*  souring  out  tlic 
tea,  curiosity  overcame,  and  he  opened  with 

"  So  you  read  most  nights,  after  Hall  ?" 

*'  Yes,  for  two  or  three  hours ;  longer,  when  I  am  in  a 
good  humour." 

"What,  aU  by  yourself?" 

"  Generally ;  but  once  or  tAvice  a  week  Grey  comes  in  to 
compare  notes.     Do  you  know  him  ?" 

"  No ;  at  least  he  hasn't  called  on  me.  I  have  just  spoken 
to  him." 

"  He  is  a  quiet  fellow,  and  T  daresay  doesn't  call  on  any 
man  unless  he  knew  something  of  him  before." 

"Don't  you?" 

"  Never,"  said  Hardy,  shortly ;  and  added  after  a  short 
pause,  "  very  few  men  would  thank  me  if  I  did  ;  most  would 
think  it  impertinent,  and  I'm  too  proud  to  risk  that." 

Tom  was  on    the  point   of  asking  why ;  but   the  uncom- 


48  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

fortable   feeling  which  he   had   nearly  lost   camo   hack    or 

him.  c    1.         ■ 

"1  suppose  one  very  soon  gets  tired  of  the  wme  and 
snpper-party  life,  though  I  own  I  lind  it  pleasant  enough 
now." 

"  I  have  never  been  tired,"  said  Hardy ;  "  servitors  are  not 
troubled  with  that  kind  of  thing.  If  they  were  I  wouldn't 
go  unless  I  could  return  tliem,  and  that  I  can't  afford  " 

"There  he  goes  again,"  thought  Tom;  "why  will  he  be 
throwing  that  old  story  in  my  face  over  ami  over  again?  lie 
can't  think  I  care  about  his  poverty;  I  won't  change  the  sub- 
ject this  time,  at  any  rate."     And  so  he  said: 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  it  makes  any  real  difference  to 
a  man  in  society  up  here,  whother  he  is  poor  or  rich;  I  nican^ 
of  course,  if  he  is  a  gentleman  and  a  good  fellow  1" 

"  Yes,  it  does — the  very  greatest  possible.  But  don't  take 
my  word  for  it.  Keep  your  eyes  open  and  judge  for  yourself; 
1  daresay  I'm  prejudiced  on  the  subject." 

"  Weil,  I  shan't  believe  it  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  Tom  ; 
"you  know  you  said  just  now  that  you  never  called  on  any 
one.  Perhaps  you  don't  give  men  a  fair  chance.  They  might 
be  glad  to  know  you  if  you  would  let  them,  and  may  think 
it's  your  fault  that  they  don't." 

"  Very  possibly,"  said  Hardy ;  "  I  tell  you  not  to  take  my 
word  fur  it." 

"  It  upsets  all  one's  ideas  so,"  went  on  Tom :  "  why,  Oxford 
ought  to  be  the  place  in  England  where  money  should  count 
for  nothing.  Surely,  now,  such  a  man  as  Jervis,  our  captain, 
has  more  influence  than  all  the  rich  men  in  the  college  put 
together,  and  is  more  looked  up  tol" 

"He's  one  of  a  thousand,"  said  Hardy;  "handsome,  strong, 
good-tempered,  clever,  and  up  to  everything.  Besides,  he 
isn't  a  poor  man;  and  mind,  I  don't  say  that  if  he  were  ho 
wouldn't  be  where  he  is.  I  am  speaking  of  the  rule,  and  not 
of  the  exceptions." 

Here  Hardy's  scout  came  in  to  say  that  the  Dean  wanted  to 
Bpeak  to  him.  So  he  put  on  his  cap  and  gown,  and  Tom  rose 
also. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  to  turn  you  out,"  said  Hardy,  "and  I'm 
afraid  I've  been  very  surly  and  made  you  very  uncomfortable 
You  won't  come  back  again  in  a  "hurry." 

"  Indeed  I  will  though,  if  j^ou  will  let  me,"  said  Tom ; 
"  I  have  enjoyed  my  evening  immensely." 

"  Tiien  come  whenever  you  like,"  said  Hardy. 

"Eat  I  am  afraid  of  urterfering  Avith  your  reading."  sail 
Tom. 


HARDY,   THE   SERVITOR.  49 

"■  Oh,  you  needn't  mind  that ;  I  have  plenty  of  time  on  my 
hands ;  besides,  one  can't  read  all  night,  and  from  eight  till 
ten  you'll  find  me  generally  idle." 

"  Tlien  you'll  see  me  often  enough.  But  promise,  now,  to 
turn  me  out  whenever  I  am  in  the  way." 

"Very  well,"  said  Hardy,  laughing;  and  so  they  parted  for 
the  time. 

Some  twenty  minutes  afterwards  Hardy  returned  to  his 
room  after  his  interview  with  the  Dean,  who  merely  wanted 
to  speak  to  him  about  some  matter  of  college  business.  He 
flung  his  cap  and  gown  on  to  the  sufa,  and  began  to  walk  up 
and  down  his  room,  at  first  hurriedly,  but  soon  with  his  usual 
regular  tramp.  However  expressive  a  man's  face  may  be, 
and  however  well  you  may  know  it,  it  is  simply  nonsense  to 
say  that  you  can  tell  what  he  is  thinking  about  by  looking  at 
it,  as  many  of  us  are  apt  to  boast.  Still  more  absurd  would 
it  be  to  expect  readers  to  know  what  Hardy  is  thinking  about, 
when  they  have  never  had  the  advantage  of  seeing  his  face 
even  in  a  photograph.  Wherefore,  it  would  seem  that  the 
author  is  bound  on  such  occasions  to  put  his  readers  on  equal 
vantage-ground  with  himself,  and  not  only  to  tell  them  what 
a  man  does,  but,  so  far  as  may  be,  what  he  is  thinking  about 
also. 

His  first  thought,  then,  was  one  of  pleasure  at  having  been 
sought  out  by  one  who  seemed  to  be  just  the  sort  of  friend  he 
would  like  to  have.  He  contrasted  our  hero  with  the  few 
men  with  whom  he  generally  lived,  and  for  some  of  whom  he 
had  a  high  esteem — whose  only  idea  of  exercise  was  a  two 
hours'  constitutional  walk  in  the  afternoons,  and  whose  life 
was  chiefly  spent  over  books  and  behind  sported  oaks — and 
felt  that  this  was  more  of  a  man  after  his  own  heart.  Then 
came  doubts  whether  his  new  friend  would  draw  back  when 
he  had  been  up  a  little  longer,  and  knew  more  of  the  place. 
At  any  rate  he  had  said  and  done  nothing  to  tempt  him  ; 
*•'  if  he  pushes  the  acquaintance — and  I  think  he  will — it  will 
be  because  he  likes  me  for  myself.  And  I  can  do  him  good 
toOj  I  feel  sure,"  he  went  on,  as  he  ran  over  rapidly  his  o\vn 
life  fur  the  last  three  years.  "Perhaps  he  won't  flounder 
into  all  the  sloughs  tliat  I  have  had  to  drag  through ;  he  will 
get  too  much  of  the  healthy,  active  life  up  here  for  that, 
which  I  have  never  had ;  but  some  of  them  he  must  get  into. 
All  the  companionship  of  boating  and  cricketing,  and  wine- 
parties  and  supper-parties,  and  all  the  reading  in  the  world 
won't  keep  him  from  many  a  long  hour  of  mawkishness, 
and  discontent,  and  emptiness  of  heart ;  he  feels  that  already 
himself.     Am  I  sure  of  that,  though  %     I  may  be  only  reading 

B 


50  TOM   BEOWN   AT   OXFOEP. 

myself  into  liiin.  At  any  rate,  Avhy  should  1  have  helped  to 
trouble  him  before  the  time]  Was  that  a  friend's  part? 
Well,  he  must  face  it,  and  the  sooner  the  better  perhaps. 
At  any  rate  it  is  done.  But  what  a  blessed  thing  if  one  can 
only  help  a  youngster  like  this  to  fight  his  way  through  the 
cold  clammy  atmosphere  which  is  always  hanging  over  him, 
and  ready  to  settle  down  on  him — can  help  to  keep  some 
living  faith  in  him,  that  the  world,  Oxford  and  all,  isn't  a 
respectable  piece  of  machinery  set  going  some  centuries  back  ! 
Ah !  it's  an  awful  business,  +hat  temptation  to  believe,  or 
think  you  believe,  in  a  dead  God.  It  has  nearly  broken  my 
back  a  score  of  times.  What  are  all  the  temptations  of  the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil  to  this  %  It  includes  them  all. 
Well,  I  believe  I  can  help  him,  and,  please  God,  I  will,  if  he 
will  only  let  me ;  and  the  very  sight  of  him  does  me  good ;  so 
I  won't  believe  we  went  down  the  lasher  together  for  no- 
thing." 

And  so  at  last  Hardy  finished  his  "walk,  took  down  a  volume 
of  Don  Quixote  from  his  shelves,  and  sat  do^vn  for  an  hour's 
enjoyment  before  turning  in. 


CHAPTER  VL 

HOW   DRYSDALE    AND   BLAKE   WENT    FISHING. 

"Drysdale,  what's  a  servitor?" 

"How  the  deuce  should  I  know?" 

This  short  and  pithy  dialogue  took  place  in  Drysdale'3 
rooms  one  evening  soon  after  the  conversation  recorded  in  the 
last  chapter.  He  and  Tom  were  sittmg  alone  there,  for  a 
wonder,  and  so  the  latter  seized  the  occasion  to  propound  this 
question,  which  he  had  had  on  his  mind  for  some  time.  He 
was  scarcely  satisfied  with  the  above  rejoinder,  but  while  he 
was  thinking  how  to  come  at  the  subject  by  another  road, 
Drysdale  opened  a  morocco  fly -book,  and  poured  its  contents 
on  the  table,  which  was  already  covered  with  flies  of  aU  sorts 
and  patterns,  hanks  of  gut,  delicate  made-up  casts,  reels,  min- 
nows, and  tackle  enough  to  kill  all  the  fish  in  the  four 
neighbouring  counties.  Tom  began  turning  them  over  and 
scrutinizing  the  dressings  of  the  flies. 

"  It  has  been  so  mild,  the  fish  must  be  in  season,  don't  you 
think  ?  Besides,  if  they're  not,  it's  a  jolly  drive  to  Fairford, 
at  any  rate.  You've  never  been  behind  my  team  Brown. 
You'd  bettor  come,  now,  to-morrow." 


HOW  DllYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FISHING.  5 1 

"  I  can't  cut  my  two  lectures." 

"Bother  j^our  lectures  !     Put  on  an  fcger,  then." 

"  No  !  that  doesn't  suit  my  book,  you  know." 

"I  can't  Bee  Avhy  you  should  be  so  cursedly  particular. 
Well,  if  you  won't,  you  won't;  I  know  that  well  enougK 
But  what  cast  should  you  fish  with  to-morrow?" 

"  How  many  flies  do  you  use  V 

"  Sometimes  two,  sometimes  three." 

"  Two's  enough,  I  think  ;  all  depends  on  the  weather  : 
but,  if  it's  at  all  like  to-day,  you  can't  do  better,  I  should 
think,  than  the  old  IMarch  brown  and  a  palmer  to  begin  with. 
Then,  for  change,  this  hare's  ear,  and  an  alder  fly,  perhaps; 
or, — let  me  see,"  and  he  began  searching  the  glittering  heap 
to  select  a  colour  to  go  with  the  dull  hare's  ear. 

"Isn't  it  early  for  the  alder?"  said  Drysdale. 

"Rather,  perhaps;  but  they  can't  resist  it." 

"  These  bang-tailed  little  sinners  any  good  ?"  said  Drysdale, 
throwing  some  cock-a-bondies  across  the  table. 

"  Yes ;  I  never  like  to  be  without  them,  and  a  governor  or 
two.  Here,  this  is  a  Avell-tied  lot,"  said  Tom,  picking  out 
half-a-dozen.  "  You  never  know  when  you  may  not  kill  with 
either  of  them.  But  I  don't  know  the  Fairford  water;  so 
my  opinion  isn't  worth  much." 

Tom  soon  returned  to  the  old  topic. 

''  But  now,  Drysdale,  you  must  know  what  a  servitor  is." 

"Why  should  I?  Do  you  mean  one  of  our  college  servi- 
tors?" 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  something  in  the  upper-servant  line.  I  should  put 
him  above  the  porter,  and  below  the  cook  and  butler.  Ho 
does  the  dons'  dirty  work,  and  gets  tlieir  broken  victual,™; 
and  I  believe  he  pays  no  college  fees." 

Tom  rather  drew  into  himself  at  this  insolent  and  ofl'-hand 
definition.  He  was  astonished  and  hurt  at  the  tone  of  his 
friend.  However,  presently,  he  resolved  to  go  through  with 
it.  and  began  again. 

•'But  servitors  are  gentlemen,  I  suppose?" 

"  A  good  deal  of  the  cock -tail  about  them,  I  should  think. 
But  1  have  not  the  honour  of  any  acquaintance  amongst 
them." 

"At  any  rate,  tney  are  undergraduates,  are  not  they?" 

"Yes." 

"And  may  take  degrees,  just  like  you  or  me?" 

"  They  may  have  all  the  degrees  to  themselves,  for  anything 
I  care.  I  -wish  they  would  let  one  pay  a  servitor  for  passing 
Uttle-go  for  one.     It  would  be  deuced  comfortable.     I  wonder 

e2 


52  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

It  don't  strike  the  dons,  now;  they  might  get  clever  beggars 
for  servitors,  and  farm  them,  and  so  make  loads  of  tin." 

"T)ut,  Drysdale,  seriously,  why  should  you  talk  like  thati 
If  they  can  take  all  the  degrees  we  can,  and  are,  in  fact,  just 
what  we  are,  undergraduates,  I  can't  see  why  they're  not  as 
likely  to  be  gentlemen  as  we.  It  can  surely  make  no  dif- 
ference, their  being  poor  men  ?" 

"  It  must  make  them  devilish  uncomfortable,"  said  the 
incorrigible  payer  of  double  fees,  getting  up  to  light  his 
cigar. 

"  The  name  ought  to  carry  respect  here,  at  any  rate.  The 
Plack  Prince  was  an  Oxford  man,  and  he  thought  the  noblest 
motto  he  could  take  was,  '  Ich  dien,'  I  serve." 

"If  he  were  here  now,  he  would  change  it  for  'Je  paye.'" 

"  I  often  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  really  and  truly 
think   Drysdale." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  telling  you  what  I  do  really  think. 
Whatever  tlie  Black  Prince  might  be  pleased  to  observe  if  he 
were  here,  I  stick  to  my  motto.  I  teU  you  the  thing  to  be 
able  to  do  here  at  Oxford  is — to  pay." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  do  either." 

*'  I  do,  though.  But  what  makes  you  so  curious  about 
ser\itors  1 " 

"  Why,  I've  made  friends  with  Hardy,  one  of  our  servitors. 
He  is  such  a  fine  fellow  ! " 

I  am  sorry  to  relate  that  it  cost  Tom  an  effort  to  say  this 
to  Drysdale  ;  but  he  despised  himself  that  it  was  so. 

"  You  should  have  told  me  so  before  you  began  to  pump 
me,"  said  Drysdale.  "  However,  I  partly  suspected  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  You've  a  good  bit  of  a  Quixote  in  you. 
But  really.  Brown,"  he  added,  seeing  Tom  redden  and  look 
angry,  "  I'm  sorry  if  wliat  I  said  pained  you.  I  dare  say 
this  friend  of  yours  is  a  gentleman,  and  all  you  say." 

"  He  is  more  of  a  gentleman  by  a  long  way  than  most  of 
the " 

" '  Gentlemen-commoners,'  you  were  going  to  say.  Don't 
crane  at  such  a  small  fence  on  my  account.  I  will  put  it  in 
another  way  fo.r  you.  He  can't  be  a  gi-eater  snob  than  many 
of  them." 

"  Well,  but  why  do  you  live  ^vith  them  so  much,  then  1 " 

"  Why  1  Because  they  happen  to  do  the  things  I  like 
doing,  and  live  up  here  as  I  like  to  live.  I  like  hunting  and 
ihiving,  and  drawing  badgers,  and  playing  cards,  and  good 
ft-ines  and  cigars.     They  hunt  and  diive,  and  keep  dogs  and 


now  DIIYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FISHING.  53 

good  cellars,  and  will  play  unliiuited  loo  or  Yan  Jonn  as  long 
as  I  please." 

"  But  I  know  you.  get  very  sick  of  all  tliat  often,  for  I've 
heard  you  say  as  much  half-a-dozen  times  in  the  little  time 
I've  been  here." 

"  Why,  you  don't  want  to  deny  me  the  Briton's  privilege 
of  grumhling,  do  youl"  said  Drysdale,  as  he  flung  his  legs 
up  on  the  sofa,  crossing  one  over  the  other  as  he  lounged  on 
his  back — his  favourite  attitude  ;  "  but  sui)pose  I  am  getting 
tired  of  it  all — which  I  am  not — what  do  you  propose  as  a 
substitute  ? " 

"  Take  to  boating.  T  know  you  could  be  in  the  first  boat 
if  you  liked  ;  1  heard  them  say  so  at  Smith's  wine  the  other 
night." 

"  But  what's  to  prevent  my  getting  just  as  tired  of  that  ? 
Besides,  it's  such  a  gi-ind.  And  then  there's  the  bore  of 
changing  all  one's  habits." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  such  splendid  hard  work,"  said  Tom,  who 
was  bent  on  making  a  convert  of  his  friend. 

"  Just  so  ;  and  that's  just  what  I  don't  want ;  the  'books, 
and  work,  and  liealthful  play'  line  don't  suit  my  complaint. 
Il^o,  as  my  ohl  uncle  says,  '  a  young  fellow  must  sow  his  wild 
oats,'  and  Oxford  seems  a  jilace  specially  set  apart  by  Pro- 
vidence for  that  operation." 

In  all  the  wild  range  of  accepted  British  maxims  there  is 
none,  take  it  for  all  in  all,  more  thoroughly  abominable  than 
this  one  as  to  the  sowing  of  wild  oats.  Look  at  it  on  what 
side  you  will,  and  you  can  make  nothmg  but  a  devil's  maxim 
of  it.  What  a  man — be  he  young,  old,  or  middle-aged — 
sows,  that,  and  nothing  else,  shall  he  reap.  The  one  only 
thing  to  do  Math  wild  oats,  is  to  put  them  carefully  into  the 
hottest  part  of  the  fire,  and  get  them  burnt  to  dust,  every 
seed  of  them.  If  you  sow  them,  no  matter  in  what  ground, 
up  they  will  come,  with  long  tough  roots  like  couch-grass, 
and  luxuriant  stalks  and  leaves,  as  sure  as  there  is  a  sun  in 
heaven — a  crop  which  it  trans  one's  heart  cold  to  think  of. 
The  devil,  too,  whose  special  crop  they  are,  will  see  that  they 
thriA'e,  and  you,  and  nobody  else,  will  have  to  reap  them  ; 
and  no  common  reaping  wUl  get  them  out  of  the  soil,  whi'/h 
must  be  dug  down  deej)  again  and  again.  Well  for  you  if 
Avith  all  your  care  you  can  make  the  ground  sweet  again  by 
your  dying  day.  "  Boys  will  be  boys  "  is  not  much  better, 
but  that  has  a  true  side  to  it ;  but  this  encouragement  to  the 
sowing  of  wild  oats  is  simply  devilish,  for  it  means  that  a 
young  man  is  to  give  way  to  the  temptations  and  follow  the 
iusta  of  his  age.     What  are  wt  to  do  with  the  wild  oats  of 


54  TOM   BEOWN   AT    OXFOED. 

manhood  and  old  age — with  amhition,  over-reaching,  the  false 
weights,  hardness,  suspicion,  avarice — if  the  wild  oats  of 
youth  are  to  be  sown,  and  not  burnt?  What  possible  dis- 
tinction can  we  draw  between  them  1  If  we  may  sow  the 
one,  why  not  the  other  1 

But  to  get  back  to  our  story.  Tom  went  away  from 
Drysdale's  rooms  that  night  (after  they  had  sorted  all  the 
tackle,  which  was  to  accompany  the  fishing  expedition,  to 
their  satisfaction)  in  a  disturbed  state  of  mind.  He  was 
very  much  annoyed  at  D.-ysdale's  way  of  talking,  because  he 
was  getting  to  like  the  man.  He  was  surprised  and  angry 
at  being  driven  more  and  more  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
worship  of  the  gulden  calf  was  verily  and  indeed  rampant  in 
Oxford — side  by  side,  no  doubt,  with  much  that  was  manly 
and  noble,  but  tainting  more  or  less  the  whole  life  of  the 
place.  In  fact,  what  annoyed  him  most  was,  the  conscious- 
ness that  he  himself  was  becoming  an  idolater.  For  he 
couldn't  help  admitting  that  he  felt  much  more  comfortable 
when  standing  in  the  quadrangles  or  strolling  in  the  High 
Street  with  Drysdale  in  his  velvet  cap,  and  silk  gowii,  and 
faultless  get-up,  than  when  doing  the  same  things  with  Hardy 
in  his  faded  old  gown,  shabby  loose  overcoat,  and  well-worn 
trousers.  He  wouldn't  have  had  Hardy  suspect  the  fact  for 
all  he  was  worth,  and  hoped  to  get  over  the  feeling  soon  ; 
but  there  it  was  unmistakably.  He  wondered  whether  Hardy 
had  ever  felt  anything  of  the  kind  himself. 

Nevertheless,  these  thoughts  did  not  hinder  him  from  sleep- 
ing soundly,  or  from  getting  up  an  hour  earlier  than  usual  to 
go  and  see  Drysdale  start  on  his  expedition. 

Accordingly,  he  was  in  Drysdale's  rooms  next  morning 
betimes,  and  assisted  at  the  early  breald"ast  which  was  going 
on  there.  Blake  was  the  only  other  man  present.  He  was 
going  with  Drysdale,  and  entrusted  Tom  with  a  message 
to  Millei  and  the  Captain,  that  he  could  not  pull  in  the  boat 
that  <lay,  but  would  pay  a  waterman  to  take  his  place.  As 
soon  as  the  gate  opened,  the  three,  accompanied  by  the 
faithful  Jack,  and  followed  by  Drysdale's  scout,  bearing  over- 
coats, a  splendid  water-proof  apron  lined  with  fur,  and  the 
rods  and  creels,  sallied  out  of  college,  and  sought  the 
livery  stables  patronised  by  the  men  of  St.  Ambrose's.  Here 
they  fomad  a  dog- cart  all  ready  in  the  yard,  with  a  strong 
Roman-nosed,  vicious-looking,  rat-tailed  horse  in  the  shafts, 
called  Satan  by  Drysdale  ;  the  leader  had  been  sent  on  to  the 
first  turnpike.  The  things  were  packed,  and  Jack,  the  bull- 
dog, hoisted  into  the  interior  in  a  few  minutes.  Drysdale 
[)roduced  a  long  straight  horn,  which  he  called  his  yard  of  tin 


HOW  DRYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  ^\^:NT  FISHING.  55 

(probably  because  it  was  made  of  brass),  and  after  refreshing 
himself  with  a  blast  or  two,  handed  it  ovor  to  Blake,  and  then 
mounted  the  dog-cart,  and  took  the  reins.  Blake  seated 
himself  by  his  side  ;  the  help  who  was  to  accompany  them, 
got  up  behind  ;  and  Jack  looked  wisely  out  from  his  inside 
place  over  the  back-board. 

"Are  we  all  riglit  1 "  said  Drysdale,  catching  his  long 
tandem  whip  into  a  knowing  double  thong. 

"  All  right,  sir,"  said  the  head  ostler,  touching  his  cap. 

*'  You'd  better  have  come,  my  boy,"  said  Drysdale  to  Tom, 
as  they  trotted  off  out  of  the  yard  ;  and  Tom  couldn't  help 
envying  them  as  he  followed,  and  watched  the  dcg-cart  lessen- 
ing rapidly  down  the  empty  street,  and  heard  the  notes  of  the 
yard  of  tin,  which  Blake  managed  to  make  really  musical, 
borne  back  on  the  soft  western  breeze.  It  was  such  a  splen- 
did morning  for  fishing. 

However,  it  was  too  late  to  repent,  had  he  wished  it ;  and 
so  he  got  back  to  chapel,  and  destroyed  the  whole  effect 
of  the  morning  service  on  Miller's  mind,  by  delivering 
Blake's  message  to  that  choleric  coxswain  as  soon  as  chapel 
was  over.  Miller  vowed  for  the  twentieth  time  that  Blake 
should  be  turned  out  of  the  boat,  and  went  off  to  the  Captain's 
rooms  to  torment  him,  and  consult  Avhat  was  to  be  done. 

The  weather  continued  magnificent — a  soft,  dull  grey  ]March 
day,  and  a  steady  wind  ;  and  the  thought  of  the  lucky  fisher- 
man, and  visions  of  creels  filled  with  huge  three-pounders, 
haunted  Tom  at  lecture,  and  throughout  the  day. 

At  two  o'clock  he  was  down  at  the  river.  The  college 
eight  was  to  go  down  for  the  first  time  in  the  season  to 
the  reaches  below  Nuneham,  for  a  good  training  pull,  and 
he  had  had  notice,  to  his  great  joy,  that  he  was  to  be  tried  in 
the  boat.  But,  great,  no  doubt,  as  was  the  glory,  the  price 
was  a  heavy  one.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  been 
Bubjected  to  the  tender  mercies  of  Miller,  the  coxswain,  or 
had  pulled  behind  the  Captain  ;  and  it  did  not  take  long 
to  convince  him  that  it  was  a  very  different  style  of  thing 
from  anything  he  had  as  yet  been  accustomed  to  in  the  fresh- 
men's crew  The  long  steady  sweep  of  the  so-called  paddle 
tried  him  almost  as  much  as  the  breathless  strain  of  the  spurt. 

]\liller,  too,  was  in  one  of  his  most  relentless  moods.  lie 
was  angry  at  Blake's  desertion,  and  seemed  to  think  that  Tom 
had  had  somethmg  to  do  with  it,  though  he  had  simply 
delivered  the  message  which  had  been  entrusted  to  him  ;  and 
so,  though  he  distribiited  rebuke  and  objurgation  to  every 
man  in  the  boat  except  the  Captain,  he  seemed  to  our  hero  to 
taki'  particular  delight  in  working  him.     There  he  stood  in 


56  TOM    BKOWN    AT    OXFOED. 

the  stern,  the  fiery  little  coxswain,  leaning  forward  with  a 
tiller-rope  in  each  hand,  and  bending  to  every  stroke,  shouting 
his  warnings,  and  rebukes,  and  monitions  to  Tom,  till  he 
drove  him  to  his  wits'  end.  By  the  time  the  boat  came  back 
to  Hall's,  his  arms  were  so  numb  that  he  could  hardly  tell 
whether  his  oar  was  in  or  out  of  his  hand ;  his  legs  were 
stiff  and  aching,  and  every  muscle  in  his  body  felt  as  if  it  had 
been  pulled  out  an  inch  or  two.  As  he  walked  up  to  College, 
he  felt  as  if  his  shoulders  and  legs  had  nothing  to  do  with  one 
another ;  in  short,  he  had  had  a  very  hard  day's  work,  and, 
?.fter  going  fast  asleep  at  a  wine-party,  and  trying  in  vain  to 
rouse  himself  by  a  stroll  in  the  streets,  fairly  gave  in  about 
ten  o'clock,  and  went  to  bed  without  remembering  to  sport 
his  oak. 

For  some  hours  he  slept  the  sleep  of  the  dead,  but  at  last 
began  to  be  conscious  of  voices,  and  the  clicking  of  glasses, 
and  laughter,  and  scraps  of  songs  ;  and  after  turning  himself 
once  or  twice  in  bed,  to  ascertain  whether  he  was  awake  or 
no,  rubbed  his  eyes,  sat  up,  and  became  aware  that  something 
very  entertaining  to  the  parties  concerned  was  going  on  in  his 
sitting-room.  After  listening  for  a  minute,  he  jumped  up, 
threw  on  his  shooting- coat,  and  appeared  at  the  door  of  his 
o^vn  sitting-room,  where  ho  paused  a  moment  to  contemplate 
the  scene  which  met  his  astonished  vision.  His  fire,  recently 
replenished,  was  burning  brightly  in  the  grate,  and  his  caudles 
on  the  table,  on  which  stood  his  whiskey  bottle,  and  tumblers, 
and  hot  water.  On  his  sofa,  which  had  been  wheeled  round 
before  the  fire,  reclined  Drysdale,  on  his  back,  in  his  pet 
attitude,  one  leg  crossed  over  the  other,  with  a  paper  in  his 
hand,  fi'om  which  he  was  singing,  and  in  the  arm-chair  sat 
Blake,  while  Jack  was  coiled  on  the  rug,  turning  himself 
every  now  and  then  in  a  sort  of  uneasy  protest  against  his 
master's  untimely  hilarity.  At  first,  Tom  felt  inclined  to  be 
angry,  but  the  jolly  shout  of  laughter  with  which  Drysdale 
received  him,  as  he  stepped  out  into  the  light  in  night-shirt, 
shooting  coat,  and  dishevelled  hair,  appeased  him  at  once. 

"  Why,  Brown,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  been  in 
bed  this  last  half-hour  1  We  looked  into  the  bed-room,  and 
thought  it  was  empty.  Sit  down,  old  fellow,  and  make 
yourself  at  home.  Have  a  glass  of  grog ;  it's  first-rate 
whiskey." 

"  Well,  you're  a  couple  of  cool  hands,  I  must  say,"  said 
Tom.     "  How  did  you  get  in  1 " 

^"Through  the  door,  like  honest  men,"  said  Drysdale. 
"  You're  the  only  good  fellow  in  college  to-night.  When  we 
got  back  our  fires  were  out,  and  we've  been  all  round  college, 


now  DRYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FISHING.  57 

and  found  all  the  oaks  sported  but  yours.  Never  sport  joxn 
oak,  old  boy  ;  it's  a  bad  habit.  You  don't  know  at  what 
time  in  the  morning  you  may  entertain  angels  unawares." 

"  You're  a  rum  pair  of  angels,  anyhow,"  said  Tom,  taking 
his  seat  on  the  sofa.     "  But  what  o'clock  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  about  half- past  one,"  said  Drysdale.  "We've  had  a 
series  of  catastrophes.  Is'ever  got  into  college  till  near  one. 
1  thought  we  should  never  have  waked  that  besotted  little 
porter.     However,  here  we  are  at  last,  you  see,  all  right." 

"  So  it  seems,"    said  Tom  ;    "but  how  about  the  fishing  ?" 

"  Fishing  !  we've  never  thrown  a  fly  all  day,"  said  Drys- 
dale. 

"  He  is  so  cursedly  conceited  about  his  knowledge  of  the 
country,"  struck  in  lUake.  "  What  with  that,  and  his  awful 
twist,  and  his  incurable  liabit  of  gossiping,  and  his  blackguard 
dog,  and  his  team  of  a  devil  and  a  young  female — " 

"  Hold  your  scandalous  tongue,"  shouted  Drysdale.  "  To 
hear  ]/ou  talking  of  my  twist,  indeed  ;  you  ate  four  chops  and 
a  whole  chicken  to-day,  at  dinner,  to  your  own  cheek,  you 
know." 

"  That's  quite  another  thing,"  said  Blake.  "  I  lilvC  to  see 
a  fellow  an  honest  grubber  at  breakfast  and  dinner  ;  but 
you've  always  got  your  nose  in  the  manger.  That's  how 
we  got  all  wrong  to-day.  Brown.  You  saw  what  a  breakfast 
he  ate  before  starting  ;  well,  nothing  woidd  satisfy  him  but 
another  at  Whitney.  There  we  fell  in  with  a  bird  in  maho- 
gany tops,  and,  as  usual,  Drysdale  began  chumming  with  him. 
He  knew  all  about  the  fishing  of  the  next  three  counties. 
I  daresay  he  did.  My  private  belief  is,  that  he  is  one  of  the 
Hungerford  town  council,  who  let  the  fishing  there  ;  at  any 
rate,  he  swore  it  was  no  use  our  gomg  to  Fairford  ;  the  only 
place  where  fish  would  be  in  season  was  Hungerfoid.  Of 
course  Drysdale  swallowed  it  all,  and  nothing  woidd  serve 
him  but  that  we  should  turn  ofl'  for  Hungm-ford  at  once. 
Now,  I  did  go  once  to  Hungerford  races,  and  I  ventured  to 
suggest  that  we  should  never  get  near  the  place.  Not  a  bit 
of  use  ;  he  knew  every  foot  of  the  country.  It  was  then 
about  nine  ;  he  would  guarantee  that  we  should  be  there  by 
twelve,  at  latest." 

"  So  we  should  have  been,  but  for  accidents,"  struck  in 
Drysdale. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  what  we  did  was  to  drive  into  Far- 
ringdon,  instead  of  Hungerford,  both  horses  dead  done 
up,  at  twelve  o'clock,  after  missing  our  way  about  twenty 
times." 

"  Because  you  would  put  in  your  oar,"  said  Diysdale 


58  TO.M   BKOWN   AT   OXFOED. 

•'  Then  grub  figain,"  went  on  Blake,  "  and  an  hour  to  bait 
the  horses.  I  knew  we  were  as  likely  to  get  to  Jericho  as 
to  Hungerford.  However,  he  would  start;  but,  luckily, 
about  two  miles  from  Farringdon,  old  Satan  bowled  quietly 
into  a  bunk,  broke  a  shaft,  and  deposited  us  then  and  there. 
He  wasn't  such  a  fool  as  to  be  going  to  Hungerford  at  that 
time  of  day ;  the  first  time  in  his  wicked  old  life  that  I  ever 
remember  seeing  him  do  any  tiling  that  pleased  me." 

"Come,  now,"  said  Drysdale,  "do  you  mean  to  say  you 
ever  sat  behind  a  better  wheeler,  when  he's  in  a  decent 
temj)er  1 " 

"  Can't  say,"  said  Blake  ;  "  never  sat  beliind  him  in  a  good 
temper,  that  I  can  remember." 

"  I'll  trot  him  five  miles  out  and  home  in  a  dog-cart,  on 
any  road  out  of  Oxford,  against  any  horse  you  can  bring,  for 
a  fiver." 

"  Done  !  "  said  Blake. 

"  But  were  you  upset  1 "  said  Tom.  "  How  did  you  get  into 
the  bank?" 

"  Why,  you  see,"  said  Drysdale,  "  Jessy, — that's  the  little 
blood-mare,  my  leader, — is  very  young,  and  as  shy  and 
skittish  as  the  rest  of  her  sex.  We  turned  a  corner  sharp, 
and  came  right  upon  a  gipsy  encampment.  Up  she  went  into 
the  air  in  a  moment,  and  then  turned  right  round  and  came 
head  on  at  the  cart.  I  gave  her  the  double  thong  across  her  face 
to  send  her  back  again,  and  Satan,  seizing  the  opportunity, 
rushed  against  the  bank,  dragging  her  with  him,  and  snapped 
the  shaft." 

"And  so  ended  our  day's  fishing,"  said  Blake.  "And 
next  moment  out  jumps  that  brute  Jack,  and  pitches  into 
the  gipsy  s  dog,  who  had  come  up  very  naturally  to  have  a 
look  at  what  was  going  on.  Down  jumps  Drysdale,  to  see 
tliat  his  beast  gets  fair  play,  leaving  me  and  the  help  to  look 
after  the  wreck,  and  keep  his  precious  wheeler  from  kicking 
the  cart  into  little  pieces." 

"  Come  now,"  said  Drysdale,  "yoa  must  own  we  fell  on  our 
legs  after  all.  Hadn't  we  a  jolly  afternoon  ?  I'm  thinking  of 
turning  tramp,  Brown.  We  spent  three  or  four  hours  ui  that 
oamp,  and  Blake  got  spooney  on  a  gipsy  girl,  and  has  written 
I  dciu't  know  how  many  songs  on  them.  Didn't  you  hear  us 
singing  them  jiist  now  ?  " 

"  JUit  how  did  you  get  the  cart  mended  1 "  said  Tom. 

"  Oh,  the  tinker  patched  up  the  shaft  for  us, — a  cunning 
old  beggar,  the  pere  de  famille  of  the  encampment ;  up  to 
every  move  on  the  board.  He  wanted  to  have  a  deal  with 
me  for  Jessy.     But  'pon  my  honour,  we  had  a  good  tin.e  of 


HOW  DRYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FISHING,  59 

it  Tluu-e  was  the  old  tinker,  mending  the  shaft,  in  his  fur 
cap,  with  a  black  pipe,  one  inch  long,  sticking  out  of  his 
mouth  :  and  the  old  brown  parchment  of  a  mother,  with  her 
head  in  a  red  handkerchief,  smoking  a  ditto  pipe  to  the  tinker's, 
who  told  our  fortunes,  and  talked  like  a  printed  book.  Then 
there  was  his  wife,  and  the  slip  of  a  girl  who  bowled  over 
Elake  there,  and  half  a  dozen  ragged  brats  ;  and  a  fellow  on 
tramp,  not  a  gipsy — some  rimaway  apprentice,  T  take  it,  but  a 
jolly  dog — with  no  luggage  but  an  old  fiddle,  on  which  he 
scraped  away  uncommonly  well,  and  set  Blake  making  rhymes 
as  we  sat  in  the  tent.  You  never  heard  any  of  his  songs. 
Here's  one  for  each  of  us  ;  we're  going  to  get  up  the  characters 
and  sing  them  about  the  country  ; — now  for  a  rehearsal ;  I'll 
be  the  tinker."   ' 

"  No  ;  you  must  take  the  servant  girl,"  said  Blake. 

"  Well,  we'll  toss  up  for  characters  when  the  time  comes. 
You  begin  then ;  here's  the  song  ; "  and  he  handed  one  of  the 
papers  to  Blake,  who  began  singing — 

"  Squat  on  a  green  plot, 

We  scorn  a  bench  or  settle,  oh, 
Plying  and  trying, 

A  spice  of  every  trade  ; 
Razors  we  grind, 

Ring  a  pig,  or  mend  a  kettle,  oh  : 
Come,  what  d'ye  lack  ? 

Speak  it  out,  my  pretty  maid. 

"  I'll  set  your  scissors,  while 

My  granny  tells  you  plainly, 
Who  stole  your  barley  meal, 

Your  butter  or  your  heart ; 
Tell  if  your  husband  will 

Be  handsome  or  ungainly, 
Ride  in  a  coach  and  foiu",  or 

Rough  it  in  a  cart." 

"  Enter  Silly  Sally  ;  that's  I,  for  the  present,  you  see,"  said 
Drysdale  ;  and  he  began — 

"  Oh,  dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Dear,  dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Oh,  dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 

All  in  a  pucker  be  I  ; 
I'm  growing  uneasy  about  Billy  Martin, 
For  love  is  a  casualty  desper't'  unsartin. 
Law  !  yonder's  the  gipsy  as  tells  folk's  fortin  ; 

I'm  half  in  the  mind  for  to  try." 

"  Then  you  must  be  the  old  gipsy  woman,  Mother  Patrico  ; 
bore's  your  part,  Bro^vn." 

"  But  what's  the  tune?"  said  Tom, 


(;0  TO.M    BROVrN   AT   OXFORD. 

"  Oh,  you  can't  miss  it ;  go  ahead  ; "  and  so  Tom,  who  was 
dro]>pii:g  into  the  humour  of  the  thing,  droned  out  from  tie 
MS.  handed  to  him — 

"  Chairs  to  mend, 
01(1  chairs  to  nieud, 
Rush  Lottoni'd,  cane  bottom  d, 
Chairs  to  mend. 
Maid,  ajiproach. 
If  thou  wouklst  know 
"Wluit  the  stai'' 
May  deign  to  show." 

"Now,  tinker,"  said  Diysdale,  nodding  at  Blako,  who 
rattled  on, — 

"  Chance  feeds  ns,  chance  leads  ns 

Round  the  land  in  jollity  ; 
Rag-dealing,  nag-stealing, 

Everywhere  we  roam  ; 
Bra,  s  mending,  ass  vending. 

Happier  than  the  quality  ; 
Swipes  soaking,  pipes  smoking, 

Ev'ry  barn  a  home  ; 
Tmk,  tink,  a  tink  a  tink. 

Our  life  is  full  of  fun,  boys  ; 
Clink  tink,  a  tink  a  tink, 

Our  busy  hammers  ring  ; 
Clink  tink,  a  tink  a  tink, 

Our  job  will  soon  be  done,  boys  ; 
Then  tune  we  merrily 

The  bladder  and  the  string. " 

Dbysdale,  as  Silly  Sally. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  what  can  the  matter  he  ? 
Dear,  dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Oh,  dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 

There's  such  a  look  in  her  eye. 
Oh,  lawk  !   I  declare  I  be  all  of  a  tremble  : 
My  mind  it  misgives  me  about  Sukey  Wimble, 
A  splatter-faced  wench  neither  civil  nor  nimbk  ! 

She'll  bring  Billy  to  beggary." 

Tom,  as  Mother  Patrico. 

"  Show  your  band  ; 

Come,  show  your  hand  ! 
Would  you  know 
What  fate  hath  planned  ? 
Heaven  forefend, 
A  J,  heav'n  forefend  1 
What  may  these 
Cross  Imes  portend  I " 


HOW  DRYfeDALE  A^D  BLAKE  WENT  FISHING.  61 

Blake,  as  the  Tinker. 

"  Owl,  pheasant,  all's  pleasant; 

Nothing  comes  amiss  to  us  ; 
Hare,  rabliit,  snare,  nab  it ; 

Cock,  or  hen,  or  kite  ; 
Tom  cat,  with  strong  fat, 

A  dainty  snpper  is  to  us  ; 
Hedge-hog  and  sedge-frog 

To  stew  is  our  delight ; 
Bow,  wow,  with  angi-y  bark 

My  lady's  dog  assails  us  ; 
We  sack  him  up,  and  clap 

A  stopper  on  his  din. 
Now  po])  him  in  the  pot ; 

His  store  of  meat  avails  ns  ; 
Wife  cooks  him  nice  and  hot, 

And  granny  tans  his  skin." 

Drysdale,  as  Silly  Sally. 

"  Oh,  lawk  !  what  a  calamity  1 
Oil,  r.iy  !  what  a  calamity  ! 
Oh,  dear  !  what  a  calamity  ! 
Lost  and  forsaken  bo  I. 
I'm  out  of  my  senses,  and  nought  will  content  me, 
But  pois'ning  Poll  Ady  who  helped  circumvent  me  ; 
Come  tell  me  the  means,  for  no  power  shall  piuvent  me  : 
Oh,  give  rne  revenge,  or  I  die.'' 

Tom,  as  Mother  Patrico. 

"  Pause  awhile  ! 
Anon,  anon ! 
fJive  me  time 
The  stars  to  con. 
True  love's  course 
Sliall  yet  run  smooth  ; 
True  shall  prove 
The  favour'd  youth." 

Blake,  as  the  Tinker. 

"  Tink  tink,  a  tink  a  tink. 

We'll  work  and  then  get  tipsy,  oh  ! 
Clink  tink,  on  each  chink, 

Our  busy  hammers  ring. 
Tink  tink,  a  tink  a  tink, 

How  merry  lives  a  gipsy,  oh  I 
Chanting  and  ranting  ; 

As  happy  as  a  king." 

Drysdale,  as  Silly  Sally 

"  Joy  !  joy  !  all  will  end  happily  ' 
Joy  !  joy  !  all  will  end  hapjiily  ! 
Joy  !  joy !  all  will  "^nd  happllj' ! 


%. 


ill  will  be  constant  to  I. 


62  TOM   BKOWN   AT   OXFOBD 

Oh,  thankee,  good  dame,  here's  my  pnrsc  and  my  thunMe; 
A  fig  for  Poll  Ady  and  fat  Sukey  \Vimble  ; 
I  now  could  jump  over  the  steeple  so  nimble  ; 
"With  joy  i  be  ready  to  cry. " 

Tom,  as  Mother  Patrico. 

«'  William  shall 
Be  rich  and  great ; 
And  shall  prove 
A  constant  mate. 
Thank  not  "ne, 
But  thank  your  fate, 
On  whose  high 
Decrees  I  wait." 

"Well,  won't  that  do?  won't  it  bring  the  house  down! 
I'm  going  to  send  for  dresses  to  London,  and  we'll  start  next 
week." 

"What,  on  the  tramp,  singing  these  songs?" 

"  Yes ;  we'll  begin  in  some  out-of-the-Avay  place  till  we  get 
used  to  it." 

"  And  end  in  the  lock-up,  I  should  say,"  said  Tom;  "it'E 
be  a  good  lark,  though.  Now,  you  haven't  told  me  how  you 
got  home." 

"  Oh,  we  left  camp  at  about  five — " 

"  The  tinker  having  extracted  a  sovereign  from  Drysdalc,' 
interrupted  Blake. 

"  What  did  you  give  to  the  little  gipsy  yourself?"  retorted 
Drysdale;  "I  saw  your  adieus  under  the  thorn-bush. — Well 
we  got  on  all  right  to  old  IMurdoch's,  at  Kiugston  Inn,  by 
about  seven,  and  there  we  had  dinner;  and  after  dinner  the 
old  boy  came  in.  He  and  I  arc  great  chums,  for  I'm  often  there, 
and  always  ask  him  in.  But  that  beggar  Blake,  who  never 
saw  him  before,  cut  me  clean  out  in  five  minutes.  Fancy  his 
swearing  he  is  Scotch,  and  that  an  ancestor  of  his  in  the  six- 
teenth century  married  a  Murdoch  !" 

"  Well,  when  you  come  to  think  what  a  lot  of  ancestors 
one  must  have  had  at  that  tune,  it's  probably  true,"  said 
Blake. 

"At  any  rate,  it  took,"  went  on  Drysdale.  "I  thought 
old  Murdoch  would  have  wept  on  his  neck.  As  it  was,°he 
scattered  suutf  enough  to  fill  a  pint  pot  over  him  out  of  his 
mull,  and  began  talking  Gaelic.  And  Blake  had  tlie  cheek 
to  jabber  a  lot  of  gibberish  back  to  him,  as  if  he  understood 
every  word." 

"Gibberish!  it  was  the  purest  Gaelic,"  said  Blaka  laugh- 
ing. 

"I  heard  a  lot  of  Greek  words  myself,"    said   Drysdale; 


HOW  DKYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FISHING.  63 

"but   old    Murdoch   was   too    pleased   at   hearing   his    own 
clapper  going,  and  too  full  of  whiskey,  to  find  him  out." 

"  Let  alone  that  I  doubt  wliether  ho  remembers  more  than 
about  five  words  of  his  native  tongue  himself,"  said  Blake. 

"  The  old  boy  got  so  excited  that  he  went  upstairs  for  liis 
plaid  and  dirk,  and  dressed  himself  up  in  them,  apologising 
that  he  could  not  appear  in  the  full  garb  of  old  Gaul,  in 
honour  of  his  new-found  relative,  as  his  daugliter  had  cut  up 
his  old  kilt  for  'trews  for  tlie  bairnies'  during  liis  absence 
from  home.  Then  they  took  to  more  toddy  and  singing  Scotch 
songs,  till  at  eleven  o'clock  they  were  standing  on  their  chairs, 
right  hands  clasped,  each  with  one  foot  on  the  table,  glasses 
in  the  other  hands,  the  toddy  flying  over  the  room  as  they 
swayed  about  roaring  lilie  maniacs,  what  was  it? — oh,  I  have 
it: 

*  Wug-an-toorej  all  agree, 

IFw^-an-toorey,  ww^'-an-toorey.' " 
"  He  hasn't  told  you  that  he  tried  to  join  us,  and  tumbled 
over  the  back  of  his  chair  into  the  dirty- plate  basket." 

"A  libel!  a  libel!"  shouted  Drysdale ;  "the  leg  of  my 
chair  broke,  and  I  stepped  down  gracefully  and  safely,  and 
when  I  looked  up  and  saw  what  a  tottery  performance  it  was, 
1  concluded  to  give  them  a  wide  berth.  It  would  be  no  joke 
to  have  old  Murdoch  topple  over  on  to  you.  I  left  them 
*  wug-an-tooreying,'  and  went  out  to  look  after  the  trap,  which 
was  ordered  to  be  at  the  door  at  half-past  ten.  I  found 
Murdoch's  ostler  very  drunk,  but  sober  compared  with  that 
rascally  help  whom  we  had  been  fools  enough  to  take  with  us. 
They  had  got  the  trap  out  and  the  horses  in,  but  that  old 
rascal  Satan  was  standing  so  quiet  that  I  suspected  something 
wrong.  Sure  enough,  when  I  came  to  look,  they  had  him  up 
to  the  cheek  on  one  side  of  his  mouth,  and  third  bar  on  the 
other,  his  belly-band  buckled  across  his  back,  and  no  kicking 
strap.  The  old  brute  was  chuckling  to  himself  what  he 
would  do  with  us  as  soon  as  we  had  started  in  that  trim. 
It  took  half-an-hour  getting  all  right,  as  I  was  the  only  one 
able  to  do  anything." 

"  Yes,  you  would  have  said  so,"  said  Blake,  "  if  you  had 
seen  him  trying  to  put  Jack  up  behind.  He  made  six  shots 
with  the  old  dog,  and  dropped  him  about  on  his  head  and  the 
broad  of  his  back  as  if  he  had  been  a  bundle  of  eels." 

"  The  fact  is,  that  that  rascally  ostler  had  made  poor  old 
Jack  drunk  too,"  explained  Drysdale,  "  a»d  he  wouldn't  be 
lifted  straight.  However,  we  got  off  at  last,  and  hadn't  gone 
a  mile  before  the  help  (who  was  maundering  away  some 
cursed  sentimental  ditty   or    other   behind),    lurched   more 


64  TOJI   BllOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

heavily  tliau  usual,  and  pitched  off  into  the  night  somewhere. 
Blake  looked  for  liim  for  half-an-hour,  and  couldn't  find  a  hair 
of  him." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  the  man  tumbled  off,  and  you 
never  found  liiin  ? "  said  Tom,  in  horror. 

"Well,  that's  about  the  fact,"  said  Drysdale;  "but  it 
isn't  so  bad  as  you  think.  We  had  no  lamps,  and  it  was  aji 
uncommon  bad  night  for  running  by  holloas." 

"  But  a  first-rate  night  for  running  by  scent,"  broke  in 
Blake;  "the  fellow  leant  againsi,  me  until  he  made  his  exit, 
and  I'd  have  backed  myself  to  have  hit  the  scent  again  half- 
a-mile  off,  if  the  v.'ind  had  only  been  right." 

"  He  may  have  broken  his  neck,"  said  Tom. 

"  Can  a  fellow  sing  with  a  broken  neck  ?  "  said  Drysdale  ; 
"  lianged  if  I  know  1  But  don't  I  tell  you,  we  heard  him 
maundering  on  somewhere  or  other  1  and  when  Biake  shouted, 
he  answered  m  endearing  terms ;  and  when  Blake  swore,  he 
rebuked  him  piously  out  of  the  pitch  darkness,  and  told  him 
to  go  home  and  repent.  I  nearly  dropped  off  the  box  for 
laughing  at  them ;  and  then  he  '  uplifted  his  testimony,'  as 
he  called  it,  against  me,  for  driving  a  horse  called  Satan.  I 
believe  he's  a  ranting  methodist  spouter." 

"I  tried  hard  to  find  him,"  said  Blake;  "for  I  should 
dearly  have  liked  to  have  kicked  him  safely  into  the  ditch." 

"At  last  Bhtck  Will  himself  couldn't  have  held  Satan 
another  minute.  So  Blake  scrambled  up,  and  away  we  came, 
and  knocked  into  college  at  one  for  a  finish :  the  rest  you 
know." 

"Well,  you've  had  a  pretty  good  day  of  it,"  said  Tom, 
who  had  been  hugely  amused  ;  "  but  I  should  feel  nervous 
about  the  help,  if  1  were  you." 

"  Oh,  he'll  come  to  no  gi-ief,  I'll  be  bound,"  said  Drysdale  ; 
"  but  what  o'clock  is  it  1 " 

''  Three,"  said  ]]lake,  looking  at  his  watch  and  getting  up ; 
"  time  to  turn  in." 

"  The  first  time  I  ever  heard  you  say  that,"  said  Drysdale. 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  forget  we  were  up  this  morning  before  the 
world  was  aired.     Good-night,  Brown." 
_  And  off  the  two  went,  leaving  Tom  to  sport  his  oak  tliis 
time,  and  retire  in  wonder  to  bed. 

Diysdale  was  asleep,  with  Jack  curled  up  on  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  in  ten  minutes.  Blake,  by  the  help  of  wet  towels 
and  a  knotted  piece  of  whipcord  round  his  forehead,  read 
Pindar  till  the  chapel  bell  began  to  ring. 


AN  EXPLOSION.  65 

CHAPTER  VII. 

AN   EXPLOSION. 

Our  hero  soon  began  to  feel  that  he  was  contracting  his  first 
college  friendship.  The  great,  strong,  badly-dressed,  badly- 
appointed  servitor,  who  seemed  almost  at  the  same  time 
utterly  reckless  of,  and  nervously  aKve  to,  the  opinion  of  all 
around  him,  with  his  bursts  of  womanly  tenderness  and 
Berserker  rage,  alternating  like  the  storms  and  sunshine  of  a 
July  day  on  a  high  moorland,  his  keen  sense  of  humour  and 
appreciation  of  all  the  good  things  of  this  life,  the  use  and 
enjoyment  of  which  he  was  so  steadily  denying  himself  from 
high  principle,  had  from  the  first  seized  powerfully  on  all 
Tom's  sympathies,  and  was  daily  gaining  more  hold  upon 
him. 

Blessed  is  the  man  who  has  the  gift  of  making  friends  ; 
for  it  is  one  of  God's  best  gifts.  It  involves  many  things, 
but  above  all,  the  power  of  going  out  of  oneself,  and  seeing 
and  appreciating  whatever  is  noble  and  living  in  another  man. 

But  even  to  him  who  has  the  gift,  it  is  often  a  great  puzzle 
to  find  out  whether  a  man  is  really  a  friend  or  not.  The 
following  is  recommended  as  a  test  in  the  case  of  any  man 
about  whom  you  are  not  quite  sure  ;  especially  if  he  should 
happen  to  have  more  of  this  world's  goods,  either  in  the 
shape  of  talents,  rank,  money,  or  what  not,  than  you — 

Fancy  the  man  stripped  stark  naked  of  everything  in  the 
world,  except  an  old  pair  of  trousers  and  a  shirt,  for  decency's 
sake,  without  even  a  name  to  him,  and  dropped  clown  in  the 
middle  of  Holborn  or  Piccadilly.  Would  you  go  up  to  him 
then  and  there,  and  lead  him  out  from  amongst  the  cabs  and 
omnibuses,  and  take  him  to  your  own  home,  and  feed  him, 
and  clothe  him,  and  stand  by  him  against  all  the  world,  to 
your  last  sovereign,  and  your  last  leg  of  mutton  ?  If  you 
wouldn't  do  this,  you  have  no  right  to  call  him  by  the  sacred 
name  of  friend.  K  you  would,  the  odds  are  that  he  Avould 
do  the  same  by  you,  and  you  may  count  yourself  a  rich  man. 
For,  probably,  were  friendship  expressible  by,  or  convertible 
into,  current  coin  of  the  realm,  one  such  friend  would  be 
worth  to  a  man,  at  least  100,000^.  How  many  millionaires 
are  there  in  England  1  I  can't  even  guess ;  but  more  by  a 
good  many,  I  fear,  than  there  are  men  who  have  ten  real 
friends.  But  friendship  is  not  so  expressible  or  convertible. 
It  is  more  precious  than  wisdom  ;  and  wisdom  "  cannot  be 
"gotten  for  gold,  nor   shall   rubies  be  mentioned  in  com- 

F 


66  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFOEL. 

"  parisoii  thereof."  Not  all  the  riches  that  ever  came  out  cf 
earth  and  sea  are  worth  the  assurance  of  one  such  real  ahiding 
friendship  in  your  heart  of  hearts. 

But  for  the  worth  of  a  friendship  conunonly  so  called — 
meaning  therehy  a  sentiment  founded  on  the  good  dinners, 
good  stories,  opera  stalls,  and  days'  shooting  you  have  gotten 
or  hope  to  get  out  of  a  man,  the  snug  things  in  his  gift,  and 
his  powers  of  procuring  enjoyment  of  one  kind  or  another  to 
your  miserable  body  or  intellect — why,  such  a  friendship  as 
that  is  to  be  appraised  easily  enough,  if  you  find  it  worth 
your  wliile  ;  but  you  will  have  to  pay  your  pound  of  flesh 
for  it  one  way  or  another — you  may  take  your  oath  of  that. 
If  you  follow  my  advice,  you  will  take  a  10^.  note  down,  and 
retire  to  your  crust  of  bread  and  liberty. 

Tom  was  rapidly  falling  into  friendship  with  Hardy.  He 
was  not  bound  hand  and  foot  and  carried  away  captive  yet, 
but  he  was  abeady  getting  deep  in  the  toils. 

One  evening  he  found  himself  as  usual  at  Hardy's  door 
about  eight  o'clock.  The  oak  was  open,  but  he  got  no  answer 
when  he  knocked  at  the  inner  door.  Nevertheless  he  entered, 
having  quite  got  over  all  shyness  or  ceremony  by  this  time. 
The  room  was  empty,  but  two  tumblers  and  the  black  bottle 
stood  on  the  table,  and  the  kettle  was  hissing  away  on  the 
hob.  "  Ah,"  thought  Tom,  "  he  expects  me,  I  see  ;  "  so  he 
turned  his  back  to  the  fire  and  made  himself  at  home.  A 
quarter  of  an  hour  passed,  and  still  Hardy  did  not  return. 
"  Never  knew  him  out  so  long  before  at  this  time  of  night," 
thought  Tom.  "  Perhaps  he's  at  some  party.  I  hope  so.  It 
would  do  him  a  deal  of  good ;  and  I  know  he  might  go  out 
if  he  hked.  Next  term,  see  if  I  won't  make  him  more 
sociable.  It's  a  stupid  custom  that  freshmen  don't  give  parties 
in  their  first  term,  or  I'd  do  it  at  once.  ^Vlly  won't  he  be 
more  sociable  1  No,  after  all,  sociable  isn't  the  word  ;  he's  a 
very  sociable  fellow  at  bottom.  What  in  the  world  is  it  that 
he  wants  ? " 

And  so  Tom  balanced  himself  on  the  two  hind  legs  of  one 
of  the  Windsor  chairs,  and  betook  himself  to  pondering  what 
it_  was  exactly  which  ought  to  be  added  to  Hardy  to  make 
him  an  unexceptionable  object  of  hero-worship  ;  when  the 
man  himself  came  suddenly  into  the  room,  slamming  his  oak 
behind  him,  and  casting  his  cap  and  gown  fiercely  on  to  the 
sofa  before  he  noticed  our  hero. 

Tom  jumped  up  at  once.  «  My  dear  fellow,  what's  the 
matter  1 "  he  said  ;  "  I'm  sorry  I  came  in  ;  shall  I  go  ?  " 

"No— don't  go — sit  down,"  said  Hardy,  abruptly;  and 
then  began  to  smoke  fast  without  saying  another  word. 


AN  EXPLOSION,  67 

Tom  waited  a  few  minutes  watching  him,  and  then  broke 
bilence  again, — 

"  I  am  sure  something  is  the  matter,  Hardj  ;  you  look 
dreadfully  put  out — what  is  it  1 " 

"  What  is  it  1 "  said  Hardy,  bitterly  ;  "  Oh,  nothing  at  all 
— nothing  at  all ;  a  gentle  lesson  to  servitors  as  to  the  duties 
of  their  position ;  not  pleasant,  perhaps,  for  a  youngster  to 
swallow  ;  but  I  ought  to  be  used  to  such  things  at  any  rate 
by  this  time.     I  beg  your  pardon  for  seeming  put  out." 

"  Do  tell  me  what  it  is,"  said  Tom.  "  I'm  sure  I  am  very 
sorry  for  anything  which  annoys  you." 

"I  believe  you  are,"  said  Hardy,  looking  at  him,  "and 
I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  it.  "What  do  you  think  of  that 
fellow  Chanter's  offering  Smith,  the  junior  servitor,  a  boy 
just  come  up,  a  bribe  of  ten  pounds  to  prick  him  in  at  chapel 
when  he  isn't  there  ?" 

"The  dirty  blackguard,"  said  Tom  ;  "by  Jove,  he  ought  to 
be  cut.  He  will  be  cut,  won't  he  1  You  don't  mean  that  he 
really  did  offer  him  the  money  1 " 

"I  do,"  said  Hardy,  "and  the  poor  little  fellow  came  here 
after  hall  to  ask  me  what  he  should  do,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes." 

"  Chanter  ought  to  be  horsewhipped  in  quad,"  said  Tom. 
"I  will  go  and  call  on  Smith  directly.     "What  did  you  do?" 

"  Why,  as  soon  as  I  could  master  myself  enough  not  to  lay 
hands  on  him,"  said  Hardy,  "  I  went  across  to  his  rooms 
where  he  was  entertaining  a  select  party,  and  just  gave  him 
his  choice  between  writing  an  abject  apology  then  and  there 
to  my  dictation,  or  having  the  whole  business  laid  before  the 
principal  to-morrow  morning.  He  chose  the  former  alterna- 
tive, and  I  made  him  write  such  a  letter  as  I  don't  think  he 
will  forget  in  a  hurry." 

"That's  good,"  said  Tom;  "but  he  ought  to  have  been 
borsewhipped  too.  It  makes  one's  fingers  itch  to  think  of  it. 
However,  Smith's  all  right  now." 

"All  right!"  said  Hardy,  bitterly.  "I  don't  know  what 
you  call  'all  right.'  Probably  the  boy's  self-respect  is  hurt 
for  life.  You  can't  salve  over  this  sort  of  thing  with  an 
apology-plaster." 

"Well,  I  hope  it  isn't  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Tom. 

"  Wait  tUl  you've  tried  it  yourself,"  said  Hardy.  "  I'll 
tell  you  what  it  is  ;  one  or  two  things  of  this  sort — and  I've 
seen  many  more  than  that  in  my  time — sink  down  into  you, 
and  leave  marks  like  a  red-hot  iron." 

"  But,  Hardy,  now,  really,  did  you  ever  krow  a  bribe 
offered  before?"  said  Tom. 

F  2 


()8  TOM   BKOWN  AT   OXFORD. 

Hardy  thought  for  a  moment.  "!N'o,"  he  said,  "I  can' 
say  that  I  have;  but  things  as  bad,  or  nearly  as  bad,  often." 
He  paused  a  miaute,  and  then  went  on :  "I  tell  you,  if  it 
were  not  for  my  dear  old  father,  who  would  break  his  heart 
over  it,  I  would  cut  the  whole  concern  to-morrow.  I've  been 
near  doing  it  twenty  times,  and  enlisting  in  a  good  regiment." 
"  Would  it  be  any  better  there,  though  1"  said  Tom,  gently, 
for  he  felt  that  he  was  in  a  magazine. 

"  Better !  yes,  it  must  be  better,"  said  Hardy :   "  at  any 

rate  the  youngsters  there  are  marchers  and  fighters ;  besides, 

one  would  be  in  the  ranks  and  know  one's  place.     Here  one 

is  by  way  of  being  a  gentleman — God  save  the  mark !     A 

young  officer,  be  he  never  such  a  fop  or  profligate,  must  take 

his  turn  at  guard,  and  carry  his  life  in  his  hand  all  over  the 

world,  wherever  he  is  sent,  or  he  has  to  leave  the  service. 

Service ! — yes   that's   the  word ;    that's  what   makes  every 

young  red-coat  respectable,  though  he  mayn't  think  it.     He 

is  serving  his  Queen,  his  country — the  devil,  too,  perhaps — 

very  likely — but  still  the  other  in  some  sort.     He  is  bound  to 

it,  sworn  to  it,  must  do  it ;  more  or  less.     But  a  youngster  up 

here,  with  health,  strength,  and  heaps  of  money — bound  to  no 

earthly  service,  and  choosing  that  of  the  devil  and  his  OAvn 

lusts,  because  some  service  or  other  he  must  have — T  want  to 

know  where  else  under  the  sun  you  can  see  such  a  sight 

as  that?" 

Tom  mumbled  somethmg  to  the  effect  that  it  was  by  no 
means  necessary  that  men  at  Oxford,  either  rich  or  poor, 
need  embark  in  the  service  which  had  been  alluded  to; 
which  remark,  however,  only  seemed  to  add  fuel  to  the  fire. 
For  Hardy  now  rose  from  his  chair,  and  began  striding  up 
and  down  the  room,  his  right  arm  behind  his  back,  the  hand 
gripping  his  left  elbow,  his  left  hand  brought  round  in  front 
close  to  his  body,  and  holding  the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  from 
which  he  was  blowing  off  clouds  in  puffs  like  an  engiue  just 
starting  with  a  heavy  train.  The  attitude  was  one  of  a  man 
painfully  trying  to  curb  himself.  His  eyes  burnt  like  coals 
under  his  deep  brows.  The  man  altogether  looked  awful, 
and  Tom  felt  particularly  uncomfortable  and  puzzled.  After 
a  turn  or  two.  Hardy  burst  out  again — 

"  And  who  are  they,  I  should  like  to  know,  these  fellows 
who  dare  to  offer  bribes  to  gentlemen  ?  How  do  they  live  1 
What  do  they  do  for  themselves  or  for  this  University  1  By 
heaven,  they  are  ruining  themselves  body  and  soul,  and 
making  this  place,  which  was  meant  for  the  training  of 
learned  and  brave  and  righteous  Englishmen,  a  he  and  a 
ecare.     And  who  tries  to  stop  them  ?     Here  and  there  a  don 


AH   EXPLOSION,  69 

is  doing  his  work  like  a  man ;  the  rest  are  either  washing 
their  hands  of  the  business,  and  spending  their  time  in 
looking  after  those  who  don't  want  looking  after,  and  cram- 
ming those  who  would  be  better  without  the  cramming,  or 
else  standing  by,  cap  in  hand,  and  shouting,  '  Oh  young  men 
of  large  fortune  and  great  connexions  !  you  future  dispensers 
of  the  good  tlmigs  of  this  realm !  come  to  our  colleges,  and 
all  shall  be  made  pleasant!'  and  the  shout  is  taken  up  by 
undergraduates,  and  tradesmen,  and  horse-dealers,  and  cricket- 
cads,  and  dog-fanciers,  '  Come  to  us,  and  us,  and  us,  and  we 
will  be  your  toadies  ! '  Let  them ;  let  them  toady  and  cringe 
to  their  precious  idols,  tiU.  they  bring  this  noble  old  place 
down  about  their  ears.  Down  it  will  come,  down  it  must 
come,  for  doAvn  it  ought  to  come,  if  it  can  find  nothing 
better  to  worship  than  rank,  money,  and  intellect.  But  to 
live  in  the  place  and  love  it  too,  and  see  all  this  going  on, 

and  groan  and  writhe  under  it,  and  not  be  able " 

At  this  point  in  his  speech  Hardy  came  to  the  turning- 
point  in  his  march  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  just  oppo- 
site his  crockery  cupboard ;  but,  instead  of  turning  as  usual, 
he  paused,  let  go  the  hold  on  liis  left  elbow,  poised  himself 
for  a  moment  to  get  a  purchase,  and  then  dashed  liis  right 
fist  full  against  one  of  the  panels.  Crash  went  the  sHght 
deal  boards,  as  if  struck  with  a  sledge-hammer,  and  crash 
went  glass  and  crockery  behind.  Tom  jumped  to  his  feet,  in 
doubt  whether  an  assault  on  him  would  not  follow;  but  the 
fit  was  over,  and  Hardy  looked  round  at  him  A\dth  a  rueful 
and  deprecating  face.  For  a  moment  Tom  tried  to  look 
solemn  and  heroic,  as  befitted  the  occasion ;  but,  somehow, 
the  sudden  contrast  flashed  on  hhn,  and  sent  him  off,  before 
he  could  think  about  it,  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  ending  in  a 
violent  fit  of  coughing;  for  in  his  excitement  he  had  swal- 
lowed a  mouthful  of  smoke.  Hardy,  after  holding  out  for  a 
moment,  gave  in  to  the  humour  of  the  thing,  and  the  appeal- 
ing look  passed  into  a  smile,  and  the  smile  into  a  laugh,  as 
he  turned  towards  his  damaged  cujDboard,  and  began  ojDening 
it  carefully  in  a  legitimate  manner. 

"  I  say,  old  fellow,"  said  Tom,  coming  up,  "  I  should  think 
you  must  find  it  an  expensive  amusement.  Do  you  often 
walk  into  your  cupboards  like  that  ?" 

"  You  see,  Bro-RTi,  I  am  natm-ally  a  man  of  a  very  quick 
temper." 

"  So  it  seems,"  said  Tom ;  "  but  doesn't  it  hurt  your 
knuckles  1  I  should  have  something  softer  put  up  for  me  if 
I  were  you  ;  your  bolster,  with  a  velvet  cap  on  it,  or  a  doctor 
of  divinity's  gown,  now." 


70  TOM  BROWN   AT  OXFORD. 

"You  be  hanged,"  said  Hardy,  as  he  disengaged  the  last 
eplmter,  and  gently  opened  the  ill-used  cupboard  door.  "  Oh, 
thunder  and  turf,  look  here,"  he  went  on,  as  the  state  of 
afi'airs  inside  disclosed  itself  to  his  view ;  "  how  many  times 
heve  I  told  that  thief  George  never  to  put  anything  on  this 
side  of  my  cujjboard !  Two  tumblers  smashed  to  bits,  and 
I've  only  four  in  the  world.  Lucky  we  had  those  two  out  on 
the  table." 

"And  here's  a  great  piece  cut  of  the  sugar-basin,  you  see," 
said  Tom,  holding  up  the  broket  article ;  "  and,  let  me  see, 
one  cup  and  three  saucers  gone  to  glory." 

"  Well,  it's  lucky  it's  no  worse,"  said  Hardy,  peering  over 
his  shoulder ;  "  I  had  a  lot  of  odd  saucers,  and  tliere's  enough 
left  to  last  my  time.  Never  mind  the  smash,  let's  sit  down 
again  and  be  reasonable." 

Tom  sat  down  in  high  good  humour.  He  felt  himself 
more  on  an  equality  with  his  host  than  he  had  done  before, 
and  even  thought  he  might  venture  on  a  little  mild  expostu- 
lation or  lecturing.  But  while  he  was  considering  how  to 
improve  the  occasion  Hardy  began  himself. 

"  I  shouldn't  go  so  furious,  Brown,  if  I  didn't  care  about 
the  place  so  much.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it  as  a  sort  of 
learning  machine,  in  which  I  am  to  grind  for  three  years  to 
get  certam  degrees  which  I  want.  No — this  place,  and 
Cambridge,  and  our  great  schools,  are  the  heart  of  dear  old 
England.  Did  you  ever  read  Secretary  Cook's  address  to  the 
Vice-Chancellor,  Doctors,  &c.  in  1G36 — more  critical  times, 
perhaps,  even  than  ours  ?  No  ?  Well,  listen  then  •"  and  he 
went  to  his  bookcase,  took  down  a  book,  and  read  :  " '  The 
'  very  truth  is,  that  all  wise  princes  respect  the  welfare  of 
'  their  estates,  and  consider  that  schools  and  universities  are 
*  (as  in  a  body)  the  noble  and  vital  parts,  which  being  vigorous 
'  and  sound  send  good  blood  and  active  spirits  into  the  veins 
'  and  arteries,  wliich  cause  health  and  strength ;  or,  if  feeble 
'  or  ill-affected,  corrupt  all  the  vital  parts ;  whereupon  gi-ow 
'diseases,  and  in  the  end,  death  itself.'  A  low  standard  up 
here  for  ten  years  may  corrupt  half  the  parishes  in  the  king- 
dom." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Tom,  "  but " 

"  Yes ;  and  so  one  has  a  right  to  be  jealous  for  Oxford 
Every  Englishman  ought  to  be." 

''But  1  reaUy  think,  Hardy,  that  you're  unreasonable," 
said  Tom,  who  had  no  mind  to  be  done  out  of  liis  chance  of 
lecturing  his  host. 

"  I  am  very  quick-tempered,"  said  Hardy,  "  as  I  told  you 
just  now.''  •' 


hardy's  history.  71 

"  But  you're  not  fair  on  tlie  fast  set  up  here.  They  can't 
help  being  rich  men,  after  all." 

"  No  ;  so  one  oughtn't  to  expect  them  to  he  going  through 
the  eyes  of  needles,  I  suppose.  But  do  you  mean  to  say  you 
ever  heard  of  a  more  dirty,  blackguard  business  than  tliisi" 
said  Hardy ;  "he  ought  to  be  expelled  the  University." 

"  I  admit  that,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  it  was  only  one  of  them, 
you  know.  I  don't  believe  there's  another  man  in  the  set 
who  would  have  done  it." 

"  Well,  I  hope  not,"  said  Hardy;  ''  I  may  be  hard  on  them 
— as  you  saj'-,  they  can't  help  bemg  rich.  But,  now,  I  don't 
want  you  to  think  me  a  violent  one-sided  fanatic ;  shall  I  tell 
you  some  of  my  experiences  up  here — some  passages  from  the 
life  of  a  servitor  1 " 

"Do,"  said  Tom  ;  "I  should  like  nothing  so  well." 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

hardy's  history. 

"  My  father  is  an  old  coijimander  in  the  Eoyal  Navy.  He 
was  a  second  cousin  of  Nelson's  Hardy,  and  that,  I  believe, 
was  what  led  him  into  the  navy,  for  he  had  no  interest  what- 
ever of  his  own.  It  was  a  visit  Avhich  Nelson's  Hardy,  then 
a  young  lieutenant,  paid  to  his  relative,  my  grandfather, 
which  decided  my  father,  he  has  told  me  :  but  he  always  had 
a  strong  bent  to  sea,  though  he  was  a  boy  of  very  studious 
habits. 

"  However,  those  were  times  when  brave  men  who  knew 
and  loved  their  profession  couldn't  be  overlooked,  and  my 
dear  old  father  fought  his  way  up  step  by  step — not  very 
fast  certainly,  but  still  fast  enough  to  keep  him  in  heart  about 
his  chances  in  life.  I  could  show  you  the  accoimts  of  some 
of  the  affairs  he  Avas  in,  in  James's  History,  which  you  see  up 
on  my  shelf  there,  or  I  could  tell  them  you  mj'self  j  but  I 
hope  some  day  you  will  know  him,  and  then  you  will  hear 
them  in  perfection. 

"My  father  was  made  commander  towards  the  end  of  the 
war,  and  got  a  ship,  in  wliich  he  sailed  with  a  convoy  of 
merchantmen  from  Bristol.  It  was  the  last  voyage  he  ever 
made  in  active  service ;  but  the  Admiralty  was  so  well  satis- 
fied with  his  conduct  in  it  that  they  kept  his  ship  in  commis- 
sion  two  years  after  peace  was  declared.      And  well  they 


72  TOM  BROWN   AT  OXFOSD. 

miglit  be  ;  for  in  the  Spanish  main  he  fought  an  action  which 
lasted,  on  and  oif,  for  two  days,  with  a  French  sloop  of  war, 
and  a  privateer,  which  he  always  thought  was  an  American, 
either  of  which  ought  to  have  been  a  match  for  him.  But  he 
had  been  with  Vincent  in  the  Arrow,  and  was  not  likely  to 
think  much  of  such  small  odds  as  that.  At  any  rate  he  beat 
them  off,  and  not  a  prize  could  either  of  them  make  out  of  his 
convoy,  though  I  believe  his  ship  was  never  fit  for  anything 
afterwards,  and  was  broken  up  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  com- 
mission. We  have  got  lier  compasses,  and  the  old  flag  which 
flew  at  the  peak  through  the  whole  voyage,  at  home  now.  It 
was  my  father's  own  flag,  and  his  fancy  to  have  it  always 
flying.  More  than  half  the  men  were  killed,  or  badly  hit — 
the  dear  old  father  amongst  the  rest.  A  ball  took  off  part  of 
his  knee-cap,  and  he  had  to  fight  the  last  six  hours  of  the 
action  sitting  in  a  chair  on  the  quarter-deck ;  but  he  says  it 
made  the  men  fight  better  than  when  he  was  among  them, 
seeing  him  sitting  there  sucking  oranges. 

"  Well,  he  came  home  with  a  stiff  leg.  The  Bristol  mer- 
chants gave  him  the  freedom  of  the  city  in  a  gold  box,  and  a 
splendidly-mounted  sword  with  an  inscription  on  the  blade, 
which  hangs  over  the  mantel-piece  at  home.  When  I  first 
left  homo,  I  asked  him  to  give  me  his  old  service  sword,  which 
used  to  hang  by  the  other,  and  he  gave  it  me  at  once,  though 
1  was  only  a  lad  of  seventeen,  as  he  would  give  me  his  right 
eye,  dear  old  father,  which  is  the  only  one  he  has  now  ;  the 
other  he  lost  from  a  cutlass-wound  in  a  boarding  party.  There 
it  hangs,  and  those  are  his  epaulettes  in  the  tin  case.  They 
used  to  lie  under  my  pillow  before  I  had  a  room  of  my  own, 
and  many  a  cowardly  down-hearted  fit  have  they  helped  to 
pull  me  through,  Brown  ;  and  many  a  mean  act  have  they 
helped  to  keep  me  from  doing.  There  they  are  always  ;  and 
the  sight  of  them  brings  home  the  dear  old  man  to  me  as 
nothing  else  does,  hardly  even  his  letters.  I  must  be  a  great 
scoundrel  to  go  very  wrong  with  such  a  father. 

"Let's  see — where  was  I?  Oh,  yes  ;  I  remember.  Well, 
my  father  got  his  box  and  sword,  and  some  very  handsome 
letters  from  several  great  men.  We  have  them  all  in  a  book 
at  home,  and  I  know  them  by  heart.  The  ones  he  values 
most  are  from  CoUingwood,  and  his  old  captain,  Vincent,  and 
from  his  cousin,  Nelson's  Hardy,  who  didn't  come  off  very 
well  himself  after  the  war.  But  "my  poor  old  father  never  got 
another  ship.  For  some  time  he  went  up  every  year  to 
London,  and  was  always,  he  says,  very  kindly  received  by 
the  people  in  power,  and  often  dined  with  one  and  another 
Lord  0 f  the  Admiralty  who  had  been  an  old  messmate.    But  he 


HAEDY'S  HISTORY.  7.^ 

was  longing  for  employment ;  and  it  used  to  prey  on  him  while 
he  was  in  his  prime  to  feel  year  after  year  slipping  away  and 
he  still  without  a  sliip.  But  why  should  I  ahuse  people,  and 
think  it  hard,  when  he  doesn't  1  '  You  see.  Jack,'  he  said  to 
me  the  last  time  we  spoke  about  it,  '  after  all,  I  was  a  battered 
old  hulk,  lame  and  half  blind.  So  was  Nelson,  you'll  say ; 
but  every  man  isn't  a  Nelson,  my  boy.  And  though  I  might 
think  I  could  con  or  figlit  a  ship  as  well  as  ever,  I  can't  say 
other  folk  who  didn't  know  me  w^ere  wrong  for  not  agreeing 
with  me.  "Would  you  now,  Jack,  appoint  a  lame  and  blind 
man  to  command  your  ship,  if  you  had  one  1 '  But  he  left 
off  applying  for  work  soon  after  he  was  fifty  (I  just  remember 
the  time),  for  he  began  to  doubt  then  whether  he  was  quite  so 
fit  to  command  a  small  vessel  as  a  younger  man  ;  and,  though 
he  had  a  much  better  chance  after  that  of  getting  a  ship  (fol 
William  IV.  came  to  the  throne,  who  knew  all  about  him),  he 
never  went  near  the  Admiralty  again.  '  God  forbid,'  he  said, 
*  that  his  Majesty  should  take  me  if  there's  a  better  man  to  bo 
had.' 

"  But  I  have  forgotten  to  tell  you  how  I  came  hito  the 
world,  and  am  telling  you  my  father's  story  instead  of  my 
own.  You  seem  to  Like  hearing  about  it  though,  and  you 
can't  understand  one  without  the  other.  However,  when  my 
father  was  made  commander,  he  married,  and  bought,  with 
his  prize-money  and  savings,  a  cottage  and  piece  of  land,  in 
a  village  on  the  south  coast,  where  he  left  his  wife  when  he 
went  on  his  last  voyage.  They  had  waited  some  years,  for 
neither  of  them  had  any  money ;  but  there  never  were  two 
people  who  wanted  it  less,  or  did  more  good  without  it 
to  all  who  came  near  them.  They  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  too, 
for  my  father  had  to  go  on  half-pay  ;  and  a  commander's 
half-pay  isn't  much  to  live  upon  and  keep  a  family.  For 
they  had  a  family ;  three,  besides  me  ;  but  they  are  all  gone. 
And  my  mother,  too ;  she  died  when  I  was  quite  a  boy,  and 
left  Irim  and  me  alone  ;  and  since  then  I  have  never  known 
what  a  woman's  love  is,  for  I  have  no  near  relations  ;  and  a 
man  with  such  prospects  as  mine  had  better  keep  do'\\Ti  all — 
however,  there's  no  need  to  go  into  my  notions ;  I  won't 
wander  any  more  if  I  can  help  it. 

"I  know  my  father  was  very  poor  when  my  mother  died, 
and  I  think  (though  he  never  told  me  so)  that  he  had  mort- 
gaged our  cottage,  and  was  very  near  having  to  sell  it  at  one 
time.  The  expenses  of  my  mother's  illness  had  been  very 
heavy  ;  I  know  a  good  deal  of  the  best  furniture  was  sold — 
all,  indeed,  exce^Dt  a  handsome  arm-chair,  and  a  little  work- 
table  of  my  mother's.     She  used  to  sit  in  the  chaix,  in  her 


'74  TOM  BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

last  illness,  on  our  lawn,  and  watch  the  sunsets.  And  he  sal 
by  her,  and  watched  her,  and  sometimes  read  the  Bible  to 
her  ;  while  I  played  about  with  a  big  black  dog  we  had  then, 
named  Vincent,  after  my  father's  old  captain  ;  or  with  Burt, 
his  old  boatswain,  who  came  with  his  wife  to  live  with  my 
father  before  I  can  recollect,  and  lives  with  us  still.  He  did 
everything  in  the  garden  and  about  the  house  j  and  in  the 
house,  too,  when  his  wife  was  ill,  for  he  can  turn  his  hand  to 
anything,  hke  most  old  salts.  Tt  was  he  who  rigged  up  the 
mast  and  weather-cock  on  the  lawn,  and  used  to  let  me  run 
up  the  old  flag  on  Sundays,  and  on  my  father's  wedding-day, 
and  on  the  anniversary  of  his  action,  and  of  Vincent's  action 
in  the  Arroiv. 

"After  my  mother's  death  my  father  sent  away  all  the 
servants,  for  the  boatswain  and  his  wife  are  more  like  friends. 
I  was  wrong  to  say  that  no  woman  has  loved  me  since  my 
mother's  deatli,  for  I  believe  dear  old  Nanny  loves  me  as  if  I 
were  her  own  child.  My  father,  after  this,  used  to  sit  silent 
for  hours  together,  doing  nothing  but  look  over  the  sea  ;  but, 
except  for  that,  was  not  much  changed.  After  a  short  time 
he  took  to  teaching  me  to  read,  and  from  that  time  I  never 
was  away  from  him  for  an  hour,  except  when  I  was  asleep, 
until  I  went  out  into  the  world. 

"  As  I  told  you,  my  father  Avas  naturally  fond  of  study. 
He  had  kept  up  the  little  Latin  he  had  learnt  as  a  boy,  and 
had  always  been  reading  whatever  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  ; 
60  that  I  couldn't  have  had  a  better  tutor.  They  were  no 
lessons  to  me,  particularly  the  geography  ones  ;  for  there  was 
no  part  of  tlie  world's  sea-coast  that  he  did  not  know,  and 
could  tell  me  what  it  and  tlie  people  who  lived  there  were 
like ;  and  often  wlien  Burt  happened  to  come  in  at  such 
times,  and  heard  what  my  father  was  talking  about,  he  would 
give  us  some  of  his  adventures  and  ideas  of  geography,  which 
were  very  queer  indeed. 

"  When  I  was  nearly  ten,  a  new  vicar  came.  He  was  about 
my  father's  age,  and  a  widower,  like  him  ;  only  he  had  no 
child.  Like  him,  too,  he  had  no  private  fortune,  and  the 
hvmg  is  a  very  poor  one.  He  soon  became  very  intimate 
with  us,  and  made  my  father  his  churchwarden  ;  and,  after 
being  present  at  some  of  our  lessons,  volunteered  to  teach  me 
Greek,  which,  he  said,  it  was  time  I  should  begin  to  learn. 
This  was  a  great  rehef  to  my  father,  who  had  bought  a  Greek 
grammar  and  dictionary,  and  a  delectus,  some  time  before ; 
and  I  could  see  him  often,  dear  old  father,  with  his  glass  in 
his  eye,  puzzling  away  over  them  when  I  was  playing,  or  read- 
ing Cook's  Voyages,  for  it  had  grown  to  be  the  wtsh  of  his 


haedy's  history.  75 

heart  that  I  should  be  a  scholar,  and  should  go  into  orders. 
So  he  was  going  to  teach  me  Greek  liimself,  for  there  was  no 
one  in  the  parish  except  the  Vicar  who  knew  a  word  of  any- 
thing but  English — so  that  he  could  not  have  got  me  a  tutor, 
and  the  tliought  of  sending  me  to  school  had  never  crossed 
his  mind,  even  if  he  could  have  afforded  to  do  either.  My 
father  only  sat  by  at  the  Greek  lessons,  and  took  no  part ;  but 
hrst  he  began  to  put  in  a  word  here  and  there,  and  tlien  would 
repeat  words  and  sentences  himself,  and  look  over  my  book 
while  I  construed,  and  very  soon  was  just  as  regular  a  pupil 
of  the  Vicar's  as  I. 

"  The  Vicar  was  for  the  most  part  very  proud  of  his  pupils, 
and  the  kindest  of  masters  ;  but  every  now  and  then  he  used 
to  be  hard  on  my  father,  which  made  me  furious,  though  he 
never  seemed  to  mind  it.  I  used  to  make  mistakes  on  pur- 
pose at  those  times  to  show  that  I  was  worse  than  he  at  any 
rate.  But  this  only  happened  after  we  had  had  a  political 
discussion  at  dinner ;  for  we  dined  at  three,  and  took  to  our 
Greek  afterwards,  to  suit  the  Vicar's  time,  who  was  generally 
a  guest.  My  father  is  a  Tory,  of  course,  as  you  may  guess, 
and  tlie  Vicar  was  a  Liberal,  of  a  very  mild  sort,  as  I  have 
since  thought ;  '  a  Whig  of  '88,'  he  used  to  call  himself. 
But  he  was  in  favour  of  the  Eeform  BUI,  which  Avas  enough 
for  my  father,  who  lectured  him  about  loyalty,  and  opening 
the  flood-gates  to  revolution  ;  and  used  to  call  up  old  Burt 
from  the  kitchen,  where  he  was  smoking  his  pipe,  and  ask 
him  what  he  used  to  think  of  the  Eadicals  on  board  ship ; 
and  Burt's  regular  reply  was — 

"  '  Skullcs,  yer  honour,  regular  skullfs.  I  wouldn't  give 
the  twist  of  a  fiddler's  elbow  for  all  the  lot  of  'em  as  ever  pre- 
tended to  handle  a  swab,  or  hand  a  topsail.' 

"  The  Vicar  always  tried  to  argue,  but,  as  Burt  and  I  were 
the  only  audience,  my  father  was  always  triumphant ;  only 
he  took  it  out  of  us  afterwards  at  the  Greek,  Often  I  used 
to  think,  when  they  were  reading  history,  and  tallving  about 
the  characters,  that  my  father  was  much  the  most  liberal  of 
the  two. 

"  About  tills  time  he  bought  a  smaU  half-decked  boat  of 
ten  tons,  for  he  and  Burt  agreed  that  I  ought  to  learn  to 
handle  a  boat,  although  I  was  not  to  go  to  sea ;  and  when 
they  got  the  Vicar  in  the  boat  on  the  summer  evenings  (for 
he  was  always  ready  for  a  sail  though  he  was  a  very  bad 
saHor),  I  believe  they  used  to  steer  as  near  the  wind  as  pos- 
sible, and  get  into  short  chopping  seas  on  purpose.  But  1 
don't  think  he  was  ever  frightened,  though  he  used  sometimes 
to  be  very  ill. 


76  TOM  BEOWN   AT  OXFOED. 

"  And  so  I  went  on,  learning  all  I  could  from  my  father, 
and  the  Vicar,  and  old  Burt,  till  I  was  sixteen.  By  that  time 
I  had  begun  to  think  for  myself ;  and  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  that  it  was  time  I  should  do  something.  Ko  boy  ever 
wanted  to  leave  home  less,  I  believe ;  but  I  saw  that  I  must 
make  a  move  if  I  was  ever  to  be  what  my  father  wished  me 
to  be.  So  I  spoke  to  the  Vicar,  and  he  quite  agreed  with  me, 
and  made  inquiries  amongst  his  acquaintance  ;  and  so,  before 
I  was  seventeen,  I  was  offered  th-^.  place  of  under-master  in  a 
commercial  school,  about  twenty  miles  from  home.  The 
Vicar  brought  the  offer,  and  my  father  was  very  angry  at 
first  ;  but  we  talked  him  over,  and  so  I  took  the  situation. 

"  And  I  am  very  glad  I  did,  although  there  were  many 
drawbacks.  The  salary  was  S5l,  a  year,  and  for  that  I  had  to 
drill  all  the  boys  in  English,  and  arithmetic,  and  Latin,  and 
to  teach  the  Greek  grammar  to  the  five  or  six  who  paid  extra 
to  learn  it.  Out  of  school  I  had  to  be  always  with  them, 
and  was  responsible  for  the  discipline.  It  was  weary  work 
very  often,  and  what  seemed  the  worst  part  of  it  to  me,  at 
the  time,  was  the  trade  spirit  which  leavened  the  whole  of 
the  establishment.  The  master  and  owner  of  the  school,  who 
was  a  keen  vulgar  man,  but  always  civil  enough  to  me, 
thought  of  nothing  but  what  would  pay.  And  this  seemed 
to  be  what  filled  the  school.  Fathers  sent  their  boys,  because 
the  place  was  so  practical,  and  nothing  was  taught  (except 
as  extras)  which  was  not  to  be  of  so-called  real  use  to  the 
boys  in  the  world.  We  had  our  work  quite  clearly  laid 
doAvn  for  us  ;  and  it  was,  not  to  pi;t  the  boys  in  the  way 
of  getting  real  knowledge  or  understanding,  or  any  of  the 
things  Solomon  talks  about,  but  to  put  them  in  the  way  of 
getting  on. 

"I  spent  three  years  at  that  school,  and  in  that  time  I 
grounded  myself  pretty  well  in  Latin  and  Greek — better,  I 
believe,  than  I  should  have  done  if  I  had  been  at  a  first- 
rate  school  myself ;  and  I  hope  I  did  the  boys  some  good, 
and  taught  some  of  them  that  cunning  was  not  the  best 
quality  to  start  in  life  with.  And  I  was  not  often  very  un- 
happy, for  I  could  always  look  forward  to  my  holidays  with 
my  father. 

"  However,  I  own  that  I  never  was  better  pleased  than  one 
Christmas,  when  the  Vicar  came  over  to  our  cottage,  and 
brought  with  him  a  letter  from  the  Principal  of  St.  Ambrose 
College,  Oxford,  appointing  me  to  a  servitorship.  My  father 
was  even  more  deliglited  than  I,  and  that  evening  produced  a 
bottle  of  old  rum,  which  was  part  of  his  ship's  stock,  and  had 
gone  all  through  his  action,  and  been  in  his  cellar  ever  since, 


haedy's  history.  77 

And  we  three  in  the  parlour,  and  old  Burt  and  his  wife  in  the 
kitchen,  finished  it  that  night ;  the  hoatswain,  I  must  own, 
taking  the  lion's  share.  The  Vicar  took  occasion,  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  to  hint  that  it  was  only  poor  men  who 
took  these  places  at  the  University ;  and  that  I  might  find 
some  inconvenience,  and  suffer  some  annoyance,  by  not  being 
exactly  in  the  same  position  as  other  men.  But  my  dear  old 
father  would  not  hear  of  it ;  I  was  now  going  to  be  amongst  the 
very  pick  of  English  gentlemen — what  could  it  matter  whether 
I  had  money  or  not  1  That  was  the  last  thing  which  real 
gentlemen  thought  of.  Besides,  why  was  I  to  be  so  very 
poor?  he  should  be  able  to  allow  me  whatever  would  be 
necessary  to  make  me  comfortable.  'But,  Jack,'  he  said 
suddenly,  later  in  the  evening,  *  one  meets  low  fellows  every- 
where. You  have  met  them,  I  know,  often  at  that  con- 
founded school,  and  wiU  meet  them  again.  Never  you  be 
ashamed  of  your  poverty,  my  boy.'  I  promised  readily 
enough,  for  I  didn't  think  I  could  be  more  tried  in  that  way 
than  I  had  been  already.  I  had  lived  for  three  years  amongst 
people  whose  class  notoriously  measured  all  things  by  a  money 
standard  ;  now  that  was  all  over,  I  thought.  It's  easy  making 
promises  in  the  dark.  The  Vicar,  however,  would  not  let  the 
matter  rest ;  so  we  resolved  ourselves  into  a  Committee  of 
"Ways  and  Means,  and  my  father  eflgaged  to  lay  before  us  an 
exact  statement  of  his  affairs  next  day.  I  went  to  the  door 
with  the  Vicar,  and  he  told  me  to  come  and  see  him  in  the 
morning. 

"  I  half-guessed  what  he  Avanted  to  see  me  for.  He  knew 
all  my  father's  affairs  perfectly  well,  and  wished  to  prepare  me 
for  what  was  to  come  in  the  evening.  '  Your  father,'  he  said, 
*  is  one  of  the  most  liberal  men  I  have  ever  met ;  he  is  almost 
the  only  person  who  gives  anything  to  the  schools  and  other 
charities  in  this  parish,  and  he  gives  to  the  utmost.  You 
would  not  wish  him,  I  know,  to  cut  off  these  gifts,  which 
bring  the  highest  reward  with  them,  when  they  are  made  in 
the  s]jirit  in  which  he  makes  them.  Then  he  is  getting  old, 
and  you  would  never  like  him  to  deny  himself  the  comforts 
(and  few  enough  they  are)  which  he  is  used  to.  He  has 
nothing  but  his  half-pay  to  live  on  ;  and  out  of  that  he  pays 
50^.  a  year  for  insurance ;  for  he  has  insiired  his  life,  that 
you  may  have  something  beside  the  cottage  and  land  when  he 
dies.  I  only  tell  you  this  that  you  may  know  the  facts  before- 
hand. I  am  sure  you  would  never  take  a  penny  from  liim  if 
you  could  help  it.  But  he  won't  be  happy  unless  he  makes 
you  some  allowance  ;  and  he  can  do  it  without  crippling  him- 
self.   He  has  been  paymg  off  an  old  mortgage  on  his  property 


78  TOM  BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

here  for  many  years,  by  instalments  of  40^.  a  year,  and  the 
last  was  paid  last  Michaelmas;  so  that  it  will  not  incon- 
venience him  to  make  you  that  allowance.  Now,  you  will 
not  be  able  to  live  properly  upon  that  up  at  Oxford,  even  as 
a  servitor.  I  speak  to  you  now,  my  dear  Jack,  as  your  oldest 
friend  (except  Burt),  and  you  must  allow  me  the  privilege  of 
an  old  friend.  I  have  more  than  I  Avant,  and  I  propose 
to  make  up  your  allowance  at  Oxford  to  80^.  a  year,  and  upon 
that  I  think  you  may  manage  to  get  on.  I^ow,  it  will  not 
be  quite  candid,  but  I  think,  onder  the  circumstances,  we 
shall  be  justified  in  representing  to  your  father  that  40^.  a 
year  will  be  ample  for  him  to  allow  you.  You  see  what  I 
mean  V 

"  I  remember  almost  word  fOr  word  what  the  Vicar  said  ; 
for  it  is  not  often  in  one's  life  that  one  meets  with  this  sort  of 
friend.  At  first  I  thanked  him,  but  refused  to  take  anything 
from  him.  I  had  saved  enough,  I  said,  to  carry  me  through 
Oxford.  But  he  would  not  be  put  off;  and  I  found  that  his 
heart  was  as  much  set  on  making  me  an  allowance  himself  as 
on  saving  my  father.  So  I  agreed  to  take  251.  a  year  from 
him. 

"  When  we  met  again  in  the  evening,  to  hear  my  father's 
statement,  it  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  see  the  dear  old  man, 
with  his  spectacles  on  and  his  papers  before  him,  proving  in 
some  wonderful  way  that  he  could  easily  allow  me  at  least  801. 
or  lOOZ.  a  year.  I  believe  it  cost  the  Vicar  some  twinges  of 
conscience  to  persuade  him  that  all  I  should  want  would  be 
4:01.  a  year ;  and  it  was  very  hard  work ;  but  at  last  we  suc- 
ceeded, and  it  was  so  settled.  During  the  next  three  weeks 
the  preparations  for  my  start  occupied  us  all.  The  Vicar 
looked  out  all  his  old  classics,  which  he  insisted  that  I  should 
take.  There  they  stand  on  that  middle  sheK — all  well  bound, 
you  see,  and  many  of  them  old  college  prizes.  ]\Iy  father 
made  an  expedition  to  the  nearest  town,  and  came  back  with 
a  large  new  portmanteau  and  hat-box  ;  and  the  next  day  the 
leading  tailor  came  over  to  fit  me  out  with  new  clothes.  In 
fact,  if  I  lud  not  resisted  stoutly,  I  should  have  come  to 
college  with  half  the  contents  of  the  cottage,  and  Burt  as  a 
valet;  for  the  old  boatswain  was  as  bad  as  the  other  two. 
But  I  compromised  the  matter  with  him  by  accepting  his 
pocket  compass  and  the  picture  of  the  brig  which  hangs  there  ; 
the  two  things,  next  to  his  old  wife,  which  he  values,  I 
beheve,  most  in  the  world. 

"  Well,  it  is  now  two  years  last  Octoher  since  I  came  to 
Oxford  as  a  servitor;  so  you  see  I  have  pretty  nearly  finished 
my  time  here.     I  was  more  than  twenty  then — much  older, 


hardy's  histoky.  79 

as  you  know,  tlian  most  freslimen.  I  daresay  it  was  partly 
owing  to  the  difference  in  age,  and  partly  to  the  fact  that  I 
knew  no  one  when  I  came  up,  but  mostly  to  my  o^vn  bad 
management  and  odd  temper,  that  I  did  not  get  on  better 
than  I  have  done  with  the  men  here.  Sometimes  I  think 
that  our  college  is  a  bad  specimen,  for  I  have  made  several 
■friends  amongst  out-college  men.  At  any  rate,  the  fact  is,  as 
you  have  no  doubt  found  out — and  I  hope  I  haven't  tried  at 
all  to  conceal  it — that  I  am  out  of  the  pale,  as  it  were.  In 
fact,  with  the  exception  of  one  of  the  tutors,  and  one  man  who 
was  a  freshman  with  me,  I  do  not  loiow  a  man  in  college 
except  as  a  mere  speaking  acquaintance. 

"  I  had  been  rather  thi'own  off  my  balance,  I  think,  at  the 
change  in  my  life,  for  at  first  I  made  a  great  fool  of  myself. 
I  had  believed  too  readdy  what  my  father  had  said,  and 
thought  that  at  Oxford  I  should  see  no  more  of  what  I  had 
been  used  to.  Here  I  thought  that  the  last  thing  a  man 
would  be  valued  by  would  be  the  length  of  his  purse,  and 
that  no  one  would  look  down  upon  me  because  I  performed 
some  services  to  the  college  in  return  for  my  keep,  instead  of 
paying  for  it  in  money. 

"Yes,  I  made  a  great  foci  of  myself,  no  doubt  of  that;  and, 
what  is  worse,  I  broke  my  promise  to  my  father — I  often  was 
ashamed  of  my  poverty,  and  tried  at  first  to  hide  it,  for  some- 
how the  spirit  of  the  place  carried  me  along  with  it.  I 
couldn't  help  wishing  to  be  thought  of  and  treated  as  an  equal 
by  the  men.  It's  a  very  bitter  thing  for  a  proud,  shy,  sensi 
live  fellow,  as  I  am  by  nature,  to  have  to  bear  the  sort  of 
assumption  and  insolence  one  meets  with.  I  furnished  my 
rooms  well,  and  dressed  well.  Ah  !  you  may  stare  ;  but  this 
is  not  the  furniture  I  started  with ;  I  sold  it  all  when  I  came 
to  my  senses,  and  put  in  this  tumble-down  second-hand  stuff, 
and  I  have  worn  oi\t  my  fine  clothes.  I  know  I'm  not  well 
dressed  now.  (Tom  nodded  ready  acquiescence  to  this  posi- 
tion.) Yes,  though  I  still  wince  a  little  now  and  then — a 
good  deal  oftener  than  I  Hke — I  don't  carry  any  false  colours. 
I  can't  quite  conquer  the  feeKng  of  shame  (for  shame  it  is,  I 
am  afraid),  but  at  any  rate  I  don't  try  to  hide  my  poverty 
any  longer,  I  haven't  for  these  eighteen  months.  I  have  a 
grim  sort  of  pleasure  in  pushing  it  in  everybody's  face." 
(Tom  assented  with  a  smile,  remembering  how  excessively 
uncomfortable  Hardy  had  made  him  by  this  little  peculiarity 
the  first  time  he  was  in  his  rooms.)  "The  first  thing  which 
opened  my  eyes  a  little  was  the  conduct  of  the  tradesmen. 
My  bills  all  came  in  within  a  week  of  the  delivery  of  the 
furniture  and  clothes  j  some  of  them  wouldn't  leave  the  things 


80  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

mthout  payment,  I  was  very  angry  and  vexed ;  not  at  the 
bills,  for  I  had  my  savings,  which  were  much  more  than  enough 
to  pay  for  everything.  But  I  knew  that  these  same  tradesmen 
never  thought  of  asking  for  payment  under  a  year,  oftener  two, 
from  other  men.  Well,  it  was  a  lesson.  Credit  for  gentle- 
men-commoners, ready-money  dealings  with  servitors  !  I  owe 
the  Oxford  tradesmen  much  for  that  lesson.  If  they  would 
only  treat  every  man  who  comes  up  as  a  servitor,  it  would 
save  a  deal  of  misery. 

"  My  cure  was  completed  by  much  higher  folk,  though.  I 
can't  go  through  the  whole  treatment,  but  wUl  give  you  a 
specimen  or  two  of  the  doses,  giving  precedence  (as  is  the  way 
here)  to  those  administered  by  the  highest  in  rank,  I  got 
them  from  all  sorts  of  people,  but  none  did  me  more  good 
than  the  lords'  pills.  Amongst  other  ways  of  getting  on,  I 
took  to  sparring,  which  was  then  very  much  in  vogue.  I  am 
a  good  hand  at  it,  and  very  fond  of  it,  so  that  it  wasn't  alto- 
gether fiunkeyism,  I'm  glad  to  think.  In  my  second  term 
two  or  three  lighting  men  came  do^vn  fi'om  London,  and  gave 
a  benefit  at  the  Weirs.  I  was  there,  and  set  to  with  one  of 
them.  We  were  well  matched,  and  both  of  us  did  our  very 
best ;  and  when  we  had  had  our  turn  we  drew  down  the  house, 
as  they  say.  Several  young  tufts  and  others  of  the  faster 
men  came  up  to  me  afterwards  and  complimented  me.  They 
did  the  same  by  the  professional,  but  it  didn't  occur  to  me  at 
the  time  that  they  put  us  both  in  the  same  category. 

"I  am  free  to  own  that  I  was  really  pleased  two  days  after- 
wards, when  a  most  elaborate  flunkey  brought  a  card  to  my 
door  inscribed,  '  The  Viscount  Philippine,  Ch,  Ch.,  at  home 
to-night,  eight  o'clock — sparring.'  Luckily,  I  made  a  light 
dinner,  and  went  sharp  to  time  into  Christ  Church.  The 
porter  directed  me  to  the  noble  Viscount's  rooms ;  they  were 
most  splendid,  certainly — first-floor  rooms  in  Peckwater.  I 
was  shown  into  the  large  room,  which  was  magnificently  fur- 
nished and  lighted.  A  good  space  was  cleared  in  the  centre  ; 
there  were  all  sorts  of  bottles  and  glasses  on  the  sideboard. 
There  might  have  been  twelve  or  fourteen  men  present,  almost 
all  in  tufts  or  gentlemen-commoners'  caps.  One  or  two  of 
our  coUege  I  recognised.  The  fighting  man  was  also  there, 
stripped  for  sparring,  which  none  of  the  rest  were.  It  was 
plain  that  the  sport  had  not  begun ;  I  think  he  was  doing 
some  trick  of  strength  as  I  came  in.  My  noble  host  came 
forward  with  a  nod,  and  asked  me  if  I  would  take  anything, 
and  when  I  declined,  said,  '  Then  wiU  you  put  on  the  gloves  V 
I  looked  at  him,  rather  surprised,  and  thought  it  an  odd  way 
to  treat  the  only  stranger  in  his  own  rooms.      However,  I« 


haiidy's  history.  81 

stripped,  put  on  the  gloves,  and  one  of  tlie  others  came  forward 
to  tie  them  for  mo.  While  he  was  doing  it  I  heard  my  host 
say  to  the  man,  '  A  five-pound  note,  mind,  if  yon  do  it  within 
the  quarter-ofan  hour.'  'Only  half- minute  time,  then,  my 
lord,'  he  answered.  The  man  who  w^as  tying  my  gloves  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  '  Ee  steady ;  don't  give  him  a  chance  to  knock 
you  down.'  It  flashed  across  me  in  a  moment  now  why  I 
was  there ;  but  it  was  too  late  to  draw  back,  so  we  stood  up 
and  began  sparring.  I  played  very  steadily  and  light  at  first 
to  see  whether  my  suspicions  were  well  founded,  and  in  two 
minutes  I  was  satisfied.  My  opponent  tried  every  dodge  to 
bring  on  a  rally,  and  when  he  was  foiled  I  could  see  that  he 
was  shifting  his  glove.  I  stopped  and  insisted  that  his  gloves 
should  be  tied,  and  then  we  went  on  again. 

"  I  kept  on  the  defensive.  The  man  was  in  bad  training, 
and  luckily  I  had  the  advantage  by  an  inch  or  so  ia  length 
of  arm.  Before  five  minutes  were  over,  I  had  caught  enough 
of  the  bystanders'  remarks  to  know  that  my  noble  host  had 
betted  a  pony  that  I  shoidd  be  knocked  down  in  a  quarter- 
of-an-hour.  JNIy  one  object  now  was  to  make  him  lose  his 
money.  My  opponent  did  his  utmost  for  his  patron,  and 
fairly  winded  himself  in  his  efforts  to  get  at  me.  He  had  to 
call  time  twice  himself.  I  said  not  a  word  ;  my  time  w^ould 
come,  I  knew,  if  I  could  keep  on  my  legs,  and  of  this  I  had 
little  fear.  I  held  myself  together,  made  no  attack,  and  my 
length  of  arm  gave  me  the  advantage  in  every  counter.  It 
was  all  I  could  do,  though,  to  keep  clear  of  his  rushes  as  the 
time  drew  on.  On  he  came  time  after  time,  careless  of  guard- 
ing, and  he  was  full  as  good  a  man  as  I.  'Time's  up  ;  it's 
past  the  quarter.'  '  No,  by  Jove,  half  a  minute  yet ;  now's 
your  time,'  said  my  noble  host  to  his  man,  who  answered  by 
a  last  rush.  I  met  him  as  before  with  a  steady  counter,  but 
this  time  my  blow  got  home  under  his  chin,  and  he  staggered, 
lost,  his  footing,  and  went  fairly  over  on  to  his  back. 

"  Most  of  the  bystanders  seemed  delighted,  and  some  of 
th(  ui  hurried  towards  me.  But  I  tore  off  the  gloves,  flung 
thorn  on  the  ground,  and  turned  to  my  host.  I  could  hardly 
speak,  but  I  made  an  effort,  and  said  quietly,  'You  have  brought 
a  stranger  to  your  rooms,  and  have  tried  to  make  him  fight 
for  your  amusement ;  now  I  tell  you  it  is  a  blackguard  act  of 
yours — an  act  which  no  gentleman  would  have  done.'  My 
noble  ho.-;t  made  no  remark.  I  threw  on  my  coat  and  waist- 
coat, and  then  turned  to  the  rest  and  said,  'Gentlemen  would 
not  have  stood  by  and  seen  it  done.'  I  went  up  to  the  side- 
board, kiiicorked  a  bottle  of  champagne,  ami  half  iiUcd  a- 
tumbler,  before  a  word  was  spoken.     Then  ouq  of  the  visitors 


82  TOM   BUOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

stepped  forward  and  said,  '  Mr.  Hardy,  I  hope  you  won't  go  , 
there  has  been  a  mistake ;  we  did  not  know  of  this.  I  am 
sure  many  of  us  are  very  sorry  for  what  has  occurred ;  stay 
and  look  on,  we  will  all  of  us  spar.'  I  looked  at  him,  and  then 
at  my  host,  to  see  whether  the  latter  joined  in  the  apology. 
Not  he ;  he  was  domg  the  dignified  sulky,  and  most  of  the 
rest  seemed  to  me  to  be  with  him.  '  Will  any  of  you  spar 
with  meV  I  said,  tauntingly,  tossing  off  the  champagne. 
'  Certainly,'  the  new  speaker  said  directly,  '  if  you  wish  it, 
and  are  not  too  tired.  I  will  spar  with  you  myself;  you  will, 
won't  you,  James  1 '  and  he  turned  to  one  of  the  other  men. 
If  any  of  them  had  backed  him  by  a  word  I  should  probably 
have  stayed.  Several  of  them,  I  learnt  afterwards,  would 
have  liked  to  have  done  so,  but  it  was  an  awkward  scene  to 
interfere  in.  I  stopped  a  moment,  and  then  said,  Avith  a  sneer, 
*  You're  too  small,  and  none  of  the  other  gentlemen  seem 
inclined  to  offer.' 

"  I  saw  that  I  had  hiu't  hun,  and  felt  pleased  at  the  mo- 
ment that  I  had  done  so.  I  was  now  ready  to  start,  and  I 
could  not  think  of  anything  more  unpleasant  to  say  at  the 
moment ;  so  I  went  up  to  my  antagonist,  who  was  standing 
with  the  gloves  on  still,  not  quite  knowing  what  to  be  at,  and 
held  out  my  hand.  '  I  can  shake  hands  with  you  at  any  rate,' 
I  said  ;  '  you  only  did  what  you  were  paid  for  in  the  regular 
way  of  business,  and  you  did  your  best.'  He  looked  rather 
sheepish,  but  held  out  his  gloved  hand,  which  I  shook. 
'IS^ow,  I  htve  the  honour  to  wish  you  all  a  very  good  evening ;' 
and  so  I  left  the  place  and  got  home  to  my  own  rooms,  and 
sat  down  there  with  several  new  ideas  in  my  head^  On  the 
whole,  the  lesson  was  not  a  very  bitter  one,  for  I  felt  that  I 
had  had  the  best  of  the  game.  The  only  thing  I  really  was 
sorry  for  was  my  own  insolence  to  the  man  who  had  come 
forward  as  a  peacemaker.  I  had  remarked  his  face  before. 
I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  you,  but  I  can  never  help  looking 
at  a  tuft — the  gold  tassel  draws  one's  eyes  somehow  :  and 
then  it's  an  awful  position,  after  aU,  for  mere  boys  to  be 
placed  in.  So  I  knew  his  face  before  that  day,  though  I  had 
only  seen  him  two  or  three  times  in  the  street.  Now  it  waa 
much  more  clearly  impressed  on  my  mind ;  and  I  called  it  up 
and  looked  it  over,  half  hoping  that  I  should  detect  some- 
thing to  justify  me  to  myself,  but  without  success.  How- 
ever, I  got  the  whole  affair  pretty  well  out  of  my  head  by 
bedtime. 

"  While  I  was  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  my  scout  came 
in  with  a  face  of  the  most  ludicrous  importance,  and  quite  a 
deferential  manner.     I  declare  I  don't  think  he  has  ever  got 


hakdy's  history.  83 

back  since  that  day  to  his  original  free-and-easy  swagger.  He 
laid  a  card  on  my  table,  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
'  His  ludship  is  houtside  watin',  sir.' 

"  I  had  had  enough  of  lords'  cards ;  and  the  scene  of 
yesterday  rose  painfully  before  me  as  I  threw  the  card  into 
the  fire  without  looking  at  it,  and  said,  'TeU  him  I  am 
engaged.' 

"  My  scout,  with  something  like  a  shudder  at  my  audacity, 
replied,  '  Plis  ludship  told  me  to  say,  sir,  as  his  bis'ness  was 
very  particular,  so  hif  you  was  engaged  he  would  call  again  in 
'arf  an  hour.' 

" '  Tell  him  to  come  in,  then,  if  he  won't  take  a  civil  hint.' 
I  felt  sure  who  it  would  be,  but  hardly  knew  whether  to  be 
pleased  or  annoyed,  when  in  another  minute  the  door  opened, 
and  in  walked  the  peacemaker.  I  don't  know  which  of  us 
was  most  embarrassed ;  he  walked  straight  up  to  me  without 
lifting  his  eyes,  and  held  out  his  hand,  saying,  '  I  hope,  Mr. 
Hardy,  you  will  shake  hands  with  me  now.' 

" '  Certainly,  my  lord,'  I  said,  taking  his  hand ;  '  I  am 
sorry  for  what  I  said  to  you  yesterday,  when  my  blood  was 
up.' 

"  *  You  said  no  more  than  we  deserved,'  he  answered,  twirl- 
ing his  cap  by  the  long  gold  tassel ;  *  I  could  not  be  com- 
fortable without  coming  to  assure  you  again  myself,  that 
neither  I,  nor,  I  believe,  half  the  men  in  Philippine's  rooms 
yesterday,  knew  anything  of  the  bet.  I  really  cannot  tell  you 
how  annoyed  I  have  been  about  it.' 

"  I  assured  him  that  he  might  make  himself  quite  easy,  and 
then  remained  standing,  expecting  him  to  go,  and  not  know- 
ing exactly  what  to  say  further.  But  he  begged  me  to  go  on 
with  my  breakfast,  and  sat  down,  and  then  asked  me  to  give 
him  a  cup  of  tea,  as  he  had  not  breakfasted.  So  in  a  few 
minutes  we  were  sitting  opposite  one  another  over  tea  and 
bread  and  butter,  for  he  didn't  ask  for,  and  I  didn't  offer,  any- 
thing else.  It  was  rather  a  trying  meal,  for  each  of  us  was 
doing  all  he  could  to  make  out  the  other.  I  only  hope  I 
Avas  as  pleasant  as  he  was.  After  breakfast  he  went,  and  1 
thought  the  acquaintance  was  probably  at  an  end ;  he  had 
done  all  thac  a  gentleman  need  have  done,  and  had  ■R'ell-nigh 
healed  a  raw  place  in.  my  mental  skin. 

"  But  I  was  mistaken.  Without  intruding  himself  on  me, 
he  managed  somehow  or  another  to  keep  on  building  up  the 
acquaintance  little  by  little.  For  some  time  I  looked  out  very 
jealously  for  any  patronising  airs,  and  even  after  I  was  con- 
vinced that  he  had  nothing  of  the  sort  in  him,  avoided  him 
as  much  as  I  could,  though  he  was  the  most  pleasant  and 

q2 


84  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

best-informed  man  1  knew.  However,  we  became  intimate, 
and  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  him,  in  a  quiet  way,  at  his  own 
rooms.  I  wouldn't  go  to  his  parties,  and  asked  him  not  to 
come  to  me  here,  for  my  horror  of  being  thought  a  tuft-hunter 
had  become  almost  a  disease.  He  was  not  so  old  as  I,  but  he 
was  just  leaving  the  University,  for  he  had  come  up  early, 
and  lords'  sons  are  allowed  to  go  out  in  two  years ;— I  suppose 
because  the  authorities  think  they  will  do  less  harm  here  in 
two  than  three  years  ;  but  it  is  somewhat  hard  on  poor  men, 
who  have  to  earn  their  bread,  to  see  such  a  privilege  given  to 
those  who  want  it  least.  When  he  left,  he  made  me  promise 
to  go  and  pay  him  a  visit — which  I  did  in  the  long  vacation, 
at  a  splendid  place  up  in  the  North,  and  enjoyed  myself 
more  than  I  care  to  own.  His  father,  who  is  quite  worthy 
of  his  son,  and  all  his  family,  were  as  kind  as  people  could 
be. 

"  "Well,  amongst  other  folk  I  met  there  a  young  sprig  of 
nobUity  who  was  coming  up  here  the  next  term.  He  had 
been  brought  up  abroad,  and,  I  suppose,  knew  very  few  men 
of  his  own  age  in  England.  He  was  not  a  bad  style  of  boy, 
but  rather  too  demonstrative,  and  not  strong-headed.  He 
took  to  me  wonderfully,  was  delighted  to  hear  that  I  was  up 
at  Oxford,  and  talked  constantly  of  how  much  we  should  see 
of  one  another.  As  it  happened,  I  was  almost  the  first  man 
he  met  when  he  got  off  the  coach  at  the  '  Angel,'  at  the  begin- 
ning of  his  first  term.  He  almost  embraced  me,  and  nothing 
would  serve  but  I  must  dine  with  him  at  the  inn,  and  we 
spent  the  evening  together,  and  parted  dear  friends.  Two 
days  afterwards  we  met  in  the  street ;  he  was  with  two  other 
youngsters,  and  gave  me  a  polished  and  distant  bow ;  in 
another  week  he  passed  me  as  if  we  had  never  met. 

"  I  don't  blame  him,  poor  boy.  My  only  wonder  is,  that 
any  of  them  ever  get  through  this  place  without  being 
thoroughly  spoilt.  From  Vice-Chancellor  down  to  scout's 
boy,  the  whole  of  Oxford  seems  to  be  in  league  to  turn  their 
heads,  even  if  they  come  up  with  them  set  on  straight,  which 
toadying  servants  at  home  take  care  shall  never  happen  if 
they  can  hinder  it.  The  only  men  who  would  do  them  good 
up  here,  both  dons  and  undergraduates,  keep  out  of  their  way, 
very  naturally.  Gentlemen-commoners  have  a  little  better 
chance,  though  not  much,  and  seem  to  me  to  be  worse  than 
the  tufts,  and  to  furnish  most  of  their  toadies. 

"Well,  are  you  tired  of  my  railing?  I  daresay  I  am 
rabid  about  it  all.  Only  it  does  go  to  my  heart  to  think 
what  this  place  might  be,  and  what  it  is.  I  see  I  needn't 
give  you  any  more  of  my  experience. 


"A  BROWN  BAIT."  85 

*'  You'll  Tinderstand  now  some  of  the  things  that  have 
pvizzled  you  about  me.  Oh  !  I  know  they  did ;  you  needn't 
look  apologetic.  I  don't  wonder,  or  blame  you.  ]  am  a  very 
queer  bird  for  the  perch  I  have  lit  on ;  I  know  that  as  well 
as  anybody.  The  only  wonder  is  that  you  ever  took  the 
trouble  to  try  to  lime  me.  Now  have  another  glass  of  toddy. 
Why  !  it  is  near  twelve.  I  must  have  one  pipe  and  turn  in. 
No  Aristophanes  to-night." 


CHAPTE.R  IX. 

"a  brown  bait." 

Tom's  little  exaltation  in  his  own  eyes  consequent  on  the 
cupboard-smashing  escapade  of  his  friend  was  not  to  last  long. 
Not  a  week  had  elapsed  before  he  himself  arrived  suddenly 
in  Hardy's  room  in  as  furious  a  state  of  mind  as  the  other 
had  so  lately  been  in,  allowing  for  the  difference  of  the  men. 
Hardy  looked  up  from  his  books  and  exclaimed  : — 

**  What's  the  matter  ?  Wliere  have  you  been  to-night  1 
You  look  fierce  enough  to  sit  for  a  portrait  of  Sanguinoso 
Volcanoni,  the  bandit." 

"  Been  ! "  said  Tom,  sitting  down  on  the  spare  Windsor 
chair,  which  he  usually  occupied,  so  hard  as  to  make  it  crack 
again  ;  "  been  !  I've  been  to  a  wine  party  at  Hendon's.  Do 
you  know  any  of  that  set  1" 

"No,  except  Grey,  who  came  into  residence  in  the  same 
term  with  me  j  we  have  been  reading  for  degree  together. 
You  must  have  seen  him  here  sometimes  in  the  evenings." 

"  Yes,  I  remember ;  the  fellow  with  a  stiff  neck,  who  won't 
look  you  in  the  face." 

"Ay,  but  he  is  a  sterling  man  at  the  bottom,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"  Well,  he  wasn't  there.  You  don't  know  any  of  the 
rest  1 " 

"  No." 

"  And  never  went  to  any  of  their  parties  1 " 

"No." 

"  You've  had  no  loss,  I  can  teU  you,"  said  Tom,  pleased 
that  the  ground  was  clear  for  him.  "  I  never  was  amongst 
such  a  set  of  waspish,  dogmatical,  over-bearing  fellows  in 
my  life." 

"Why,  what  in  the  name  of  fortune  have  they  been  doing 
to  you  1     How  did  you  fall  among  Guch  Philistines  1 " 


86  TOM  BROWN  AT   OXFORD. 

"  I'm  such  an  easy  fool,  you  see,"  said  Tom,  "  I  go  oil 
directly  with  any  fellow  that  asks  me ;  fast  or  slow,  it's  all 
the  same.  I  never  think  twice  about  the  matter,  and  gene- 
rally, I  Hke  all  the  fellows  I  meet,  and  enjoy  everything. 
But  just  catch  me  at  another  of  their  stuck-up  wines,  that's 
all." 

"  But  you  won't  tell  me  what's  the  matter." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  why  Hendon  should  have  asked  me. 
He  can't  think  me  a  likely  card  for  a  convert,  I  should  think. 
At  any  rate,  he  asked  me  to  wine,  and  I  went  as  usual  Every- 
thing was  in  capital  style  (it  don't  seem  to  be  any  part  of  their 
creed,  mind  you,  to  drink  bad  wine),  and  awfully  gentlemanly 
and  decorous." 

"Yes,  that's  aggravating,  I  admit.  It  would  have  been  in 
better  taste,  of  coiirse,  if  they  had  been  a  little  blackguard 
and  indecorous.  No  doubt,  too,  one  has  a  right  to  expect 
bad  wine  at  Oxford.     Well  ?  " 

Hardy  spoke  so  gravely,  that  Tom  had  to  look  across  at 
him  for  half  a  minute  to  see  whether  he  was  in  earnest.  Then 
he  went  on  with  a  grin. 

"  There  was  a  piano  in  one  corner,  and  muslin  curtains — 
I  give  you  my  word,  muslin  curtains,  besides  the  stuff  ones." 

"You  don't  say  so  !"  said  Hardy;  "put  up,  no  doubt,  to 
insult  you.  No  wonder  you  looked  so  furious  when  you  came 
in.     Anything  else  1 " 

"Let  me  see — yes — I  coxmted  three  sorts  of  scents  on 
the  mantel-piece,  besides  Eau-de-Cologne.  But  I  could  have 
stood  it  all  well  enough  if  it  hadn't  been  for  their  talk. 
From  one  thing  to  another  they  got  to  cathedrals,  and  one  of 
them  called  St.  Paul's  'a  disgrace  to  a  Christian  city.'  i 
couldn't  stand  that,  you  know.  I  was  always  bred  to  respect 
St.  Paul's  ;  weren't  you  ? " 

"  My  education  in  that  line  was  neglected,"  said  Hardy, 
gravely.  "  And  so  you  took  up  the  cudgels  for  St.  Paul's  1 " 
"  Yes,  I  plumped  out  that  St.  Paul's  was  the  finest  cathedral 
in  England.  You'd  have  thought  I  had  said  that  lying  was  one 
of  the  cardinal  virtues — one  or  two  just  treated  me  to  a  sort  of 
pitying  sneer,  but  my  neighbours  were  down  upon  me  with  a 
vengeance.  I  stuck  to  my  text  though,  and  they  drove  me 
into  saying  I  liked  the  Ptatcliffe  more  than  any  building  in 
Oxford ;  which  I  don't  believe  I  do,  now  I  come  to  think  of 
it.  So  when  they  couldn't  get  me  to  budge  for  their  talk,  they 
took  to  telling  me  that  everybody  who  knew  anything  about 
chiu'ch  architecture  was  against  me — of  course  meaning  that 
I  knew  nothing  about  it — for  the  matter  of  that,  I  don't  mean 
to  say  that  I  do  "—Tom  paused  ;  it  had  suddenly  occurred  tg 


"A   BROWN    BAIT."  87 

him  that  there  might  be  some  reason  in  the  rough  handling 
he  had  got. 

"But  what  did  you  say  to  the  authorities?"  said  Hardy, 
who  was  greatly  amused. 

"  Said  I  didn't  care  a  straw  for  them,"  said  Tom;  "there 
was  no  right  or  wrong  in  the  matter,  and  I  had  as  good  a 
right  to  my  opinion  as  Pugin — or  whatever  his  name  is — and 
the  rest." 

"  What  heresy  ! "  said  Hardy,  laughing ;  "  you  caught  it 
for  that,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Didn't  I !  They  made  such  a  noise  over  it,  that  the  men 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table  stopped  talking  (they  were  all 
freshmen  at  our  end),  and  when  they  found  what  was  up,  one 
of  the  older  ones  took  me  in  hand,  and  I  got  a  lecture  about 
the  middle  ages,  and  the  monks.  I  said  I  thought  England 
was  well  rid  of  the  monks  ;  and  then  we  got  on  to  Pro- 
testantism, and  fasting,  and  apostolic  succession,  and  passive 
obedience,  and  I  don't  know  what  all !  I  only  know  I  was 
tired  enough  of  it  before  coffee  came  ;  but  I  couldn't  go,  you 
know,  with  all  of  them  on  me  at  once,  could  1 1 " 

"  Of  course  not ;  you  were  like  the  6,000  unconquerable 
British  infantry  at  Albuera.  You  held  your  position  by  sheer 
fighting,  suffering  fearful  loss." 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  laughing,  for  he  had  talked  himself  into 
good  humour  again,  "  I  dare  say  I  talked  a  deal  of  nonsense ; 
and,  when  I  come  to  think  it  over,  a  good  deal  of  what  some 
of  them  said  had  something  in  it.  I  should  like  to  hear  it 
again  quietly ;  but  there  were  others  sneering  and  giving 
themselves  airs,  and  that  puts  a  fellow's  back  up." 

"Yes,"  said  Hardy,  "a  good  many  of  the  weakest  and 
vainest  men  who  come  up  take  to  this  sort  of  thing  now. 
They  can  do  nothing  themselves,  and  get  a  sort  of  platform 
by  going  in  for  the  High  Church  business  from  Avhich  to  look 
down  on  their  neighbours." 

"That's  just  what  I  thought,"  said  Tom;  "they  tried  to 
push,  mother  Church,  mother  Church,  down  my  throat  at 
every  turn.  I'm  as  fond  of  the  Church  as  any  of  them,  but  I 
don't  want  to  be  jumping  up  on  her  back  every  minute,  like 
a  sickly  chicken  getting  on  the  old  hen's  back  to  warm  its 
feet  Avhenever  the  ground  is  cold,  and  fancying  himself  taller 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  brood." 

"You  were  unlucky,"  said  Hardy;  "there  are  some  very 
fine  fellows  amongst  them." 

"Well,  I  haven't  seen  much  of  them,"  said  Tom,  "and  I 
don't  want  to  see  any  more,  for  it  seems  to  me  all  a  Gothic- 
mouldings  and  man-millinery  business." 


88  TOM   BEOWN    AT   OXFORD. 

"  You  won't  tliink  so  whftn  you've  been  up  a  little  longer," 
said  Hardy,  getting  up  to  make  tea,  which  operation  he  had 
hardly  commenced,  when  a  knock  came  at  the  door,  and  in 
answer  to  Hardy's  "  Come  in,"  a  slight,  shy  man  appeared, 
who  hesitated,  and  seemed  inclined  to  go  when  he  saw  that 
Hardy  was  nst  alone. 

"Oh,  come  in,  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,  Grey.  You  know 
Brown,  I  think  ? "  said  Hardy,  looking  round  from  the  fire, 
where  he  was  filling  his  teapot,  to  watch  Tom's  reception  of 
the  new  comer. 

Our  hero  took  his  feet  do^^Ti,  drew  himself  up  and  made  a 
solemn  bow,  which  Grey  returned,  and  then  sKd  nervously 
into  a  chair  and  looked  very  uncomfortable.  However,  in 
another  minute  Hardy  came  to  the  rescue  and  began  pouring 
out  the  tea.  He  was  evidently  tickled  at  the  idea  of  con- 
fronting Tom  so  soon  with  another  of  his  enemies.  Tom  saw 
this,  and  put  on  a  cool  and  majestic  manner  in  consequence, 
which  evidently  increased  the  discomfort  of  Grey's  seat,  and 
kept  Hardy  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss  of  laughter.  In  fact,  he 
had  to  ease  himself  by  talking  of  indifferent  matters  and 
laughing  at  nothing.  Tom  had  never  seen  him  in  this  sort 
of  humour  before,  and  couldn't  help  enjoying  it,  though  he 
felt  that  it  was  partly  at  his  own  expense.  But  when  Hardy 
once  just  approached  the  subject  of  the  wine  party,  Tom 
bristled  up  so  quickly,  and  Grey  looked  so  meekly  wretched, 
though  he  knew  nothing  of  what  was  coming,  that  Hardy 
suddenly  changed  the  subject,  and  turning  to  Grey,  said — 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  the  last  fortnight  ]  You 
haven't  been  here  once.  I've  been  obliged  to  get  on  with  my 
Aristotle  without  you." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  indeed,  but  I  haven't  been  able  to  come," 
said  Grey,  looking  sideways  at  Hardy,  and  then  at  Tom,  who 
sat  regarding  the  wall,  supremely  indifferent. 

"  Well  I've  finished  my  Ethics,"  said  Hardy  ;  "  can't  you 
come  in  to-morrow  night  to  talk  them  over  1  I  suppose  you're 
through  them  too  ?  " 

"  No,  really,"  said  Grey,  "  I  haven't  been  able  to  look  at 
them  since  the  last  time  I  was  here." 

"  You  must  take  care,"  said  Hardy.  "  The  new  examiners 
are  all  for  science  and  history  ;  it  won't  do  for  you  to  go  in 
trusting  to  your  scholarship." 

"  I  hope  to  make  it  up  in  the  Eastei  vacation,"  said  Grey. 

"You'll  have  enough  to  do  then,"  said  Hardy  ;  "  but  how 
is  it  you've  dropped  astern  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  tlie  fact  is,"  said  Grey,  hesitatingly,  "  that  the 
curate  of  St.  Peter's  has  set  up  some  night-schools,  and  want(jd 


-A   BROWN    BAIT."  89 

Mome  help.  So  I  have  been  Jomg  what  1  could  to  help  him  ; 
and  really,"  looking  at  his  watch,  "  I  must  be  going.  I  only 
wanted  to  tell  you  how  it  was  I  didn't  come  now." 

Hardy  looked  at  Tom,  who  was  taken  rather  aback  by  this 
announcement,  and  began  to  look  less  haughtily  at  the  wall. 
He  even  condescended  to  take  a  short  glance  at  his  neighbour. 

"  It's  unlucky,"  said  Hardv  ;  "  but  do  you  teach  every 
night  1 " 

"  Yes,"  said  Grey.  "  I  used  to  do  my  science  and  history 
at  night,  you  know ;  but  I  find  that  teaching  takes  so  much 
out  of  me,  that  I'm  only  fit  for  bed  now,  when  I  get  back. 
I'm  so  glad  I've  told  you.  I  have  wanted  to  do  it  for  some 
time.  And  if  you  would  let  me  come  in  for  an  hour  directly 
after  hall,  instead  of  later,  I  think  I  coiild  still  manage  that." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Hardy,  "come  when  you  like.  But  it's 
rather  hard  to  take  you  away  every  night,  so  near  the 
examinations." 

"  It  is  my  own  wish,"  said  Grey.  "  I  should  have  been  very 
glad  if  it  hadn't  happened  just  now  ;  but  as  it  has,  I  must  do 
the  best  I  can." 

"Well,  but  I  should  like  to  help  you.  Can't  I  take  a 
night  or  two  off  your  hands  1  " 

"  No  !  "  said  Tom,  fired  with  a  sudden  enthusiasm  ;  "  it  will 
be  as  bad  for  you.  Hardy.  It  can't  want  much  scholarship  to 
teach  there.  Let  me  go.  I'll  take  two  nights  a  week,  if 
you'll  let  me." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Grey  ;  "  but  I  don't  know  how  mj 
friend  might  like  it.  That  is — I  mean,"  he  said,  getting  verj 
red,  "  it's  very  kind  of  you,  only  I'm  used  to  it  ;  and — and 
they  rely  on  me.  But  I  really  must  go — good  night ;  "  and 
Grey  went  off  in  confusion. 

As  soon  as  the  door  had  fairly  closed,  Hardy  could  stand  it 
DO  longer,  and  lay  back  in  his  chair,  laughing  till  the  tears 
ran  down  his  cheeks.  Tom,  wholly  unable  to  appreciate  the 
joke,  sat  looking  at  him  with  perfect  gravity. 

"  What  can  there  be  in  your  look,  Brown,"  said  Hardy, 
when  he  could  speak  again,  "  to  frighten  Grey  so  1  Did  you 
see  what  a  fright  he  was  in  at  once,  at  the  idea  of  turning 
you  into  the  night-schools  1  There  must  be  some  lurking 
Protestantism  in  your  face  somewhere,  wh:ch  I  hadn't 
detected.' 

"  I  don't  believe  he  was  frightened  at  me  a  bit.  He 
wouldn't  have  you  either,  remember,"  said  Tom. 

"  Well,  at  any  race,  that  don't  look  as  if  it  were  all  mere 
Gothic-mouldings  and  man-millinery,  does  it  1 "  said  Hardy. 

Tom  sipped  his  tea,  and  considered. 


90'  TOM   BEOWN  AT   OXFORD. 

"  One  can't  help  admiring  him,  do  you  know,  for  it,"  he 
said.  "  Do  you  think  he  is  really  thrown  back,  now,  in  his 
own  reading  by  this  teaching  ?  " 

-  I'm  sure  of  it.  He  is  such  a  quiet  fellow,  that  nothing 
else  is  likely  to  draw  him  off  reading ;  and  I  can  see  that 
he  doesn't  got  on  as  he  used,  day  by  day.  Unless  he  makes 
it  up  somehow,  he  won't  get  his  first." 

"He  don't  seem  to  like  the  teaching  work  much,'  said 
Tom. 

"Not  at  all,  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

"  Then  it  is  a  very  fine  thing  of  him,"  said  Tom. 

"  And  you  retract  your  man-millinery  dictum,  so  far  as  he 
is  concerned  1 " 

"  Yes,  that  I  do,  heartily  ;  but  not  as  to  the  set  in  general." 

"  WeU;  they  don't  suit  me  either  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  they 
are  wanted — at  any  rate,  in  this  college.  Even  the  worst  of  them 
is  making  some  sort  of  protest  for  self-denial,  and  against 
self-indulgence,  which  is  nowhere  more  needed  than  here." 

"  A  nice  sort  of  protest — muslin  curtains,  a  piano,  and  old 
claret." 

"  Oh,  you've  no  right  to  count  Hendon  among  them ;  he 
has  only  a  httle  hankering  after  medisevalism,  and  thinks 
the  whole  thing  gentlemanly." 

"  I  only  know  the  whole  clamjamfery  of  them  were 
there,  and  didn't  seem  to  protest  much." 

"  Brown,  you're  a  bigot.  I  should  never  have  thought  you 
would  have  been  so  furious  against  any  set  of  fellows.  T 
begin  to  smell  Arnold." 

"  No  you  don't.     He  never  spoke  to  me  against  anybody." 

"  Hallo  !  It  was  the  Eugby  atmosphere,  then,  I  suppose. 
But  I  tell  you  they  are  the  only  men  in  this  college  who  are 
making  that  protest,  whatever  their  motives  may  be." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  yourself,  old  fellow  ? " 

"  Nonsense  !  I  never  deny  myself  any  pleasure  that  I  can 
afford,  if  it  isn't  wrong  in  itself,  and  doesn't  hinder  any  one 
else.  I  can  tell  you  I'm  as  fond  of  fine  things  and  good 
living  as  you." 

"//a  thing  isn't  wrong,  and  you  can  afford  it,  and  it  don't 
hurt  anybody !  Just  so  ;  well,  then,  mustn't  it  be  right  for 
you  to  have  ?  You  wouldn't  have  it  put  under  your  nose, 
I  suppose,  just  for  you  to  smell  at,  and  let  it  alone  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  I  know  all  that.  I've  been  over  it  all  often  enough, 
and  thevsj's  truth  in  it.  But,  mind  you,  it's  rather  slippery 
ground,  especially  for  a  freshman  ;  and  there's  a  great  deal  to 
be  said  on  the  other  side — I  mean,  for  denying  oneself  just 
for  the  sake  of  the  self-deniaL" 


"A  BEOWN  BAIT."  91 

"  Well,  they  don't  deny  themselves  the  pleasure  of  looking 
at  a  feUow  as  if  he  were  a  Tiirk,  hecause  he  likes  St.  Paul's 
better  than  Westminster  Abbey." 

"  How  that  snubbing  you  got  at  the  Ecclesiological  wine 
party  seems  to  rankle. — There  now  !  don't  bristle  up  like 
a  hedgehog.  I'll  never  mention  that  unfortunate  wine  again. 
I  saw  the  eight  come  in  to-day.  You  are  keeping  much 
better  time  ;  but  there  is  a  weak  place  or  two  forward." 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom,  delighted  to  change  the  subject,  "  I 
find  it  awfully  hard  to  pull  up  to  Jervis's  stroke.  Do  you 
think  I  shall  ever  get  to  it  1  " 

"  Of  course  you  Avill.  AVliy,  you  have  only  been  pulling 
behind  him  a  dozen  times  or  so,  and  his  ia  the  most 
trying  stroke  on  the  river.  You  quicken  a  little  on  it ; 
bu.t  I  didn't  mean  you.  Two  and  five  are  the  blots  in  the 
boat." 

*'  You  think  sol"  said  Tom,  much  relieved.  "  So  does 
Miller,  I  can  see.  It's  so  provoking — Drysdale  is  to  pull 
two  in  the  races  next  term,  and  Blake  seven,  and  then 
Diogenes  will  go  to  five.  He's  obliged  to  pull  seven  now, 
because  Blake  won't  come  down  this  term  ;  no  more  "wdll 
Drysdale.  They  say  there  wUl  be  plenty  of  time  after 
Easter." 

"  It's  a  great  pity,"  said  Hardy. 

"  Isn't  it  1 "  said  Tom  ;  "  and  it  makes  Miller  so  savage. 
He  walks  into  us  all  as  if  it  were  our  faults.  Do  you  think 
he's  a  good  coxswain  1  " 

"First-rate  on  most  points,  but  rather  too  sharp-tongued. 
You   can't  get   a  man's  best   out  of  him  without  a  little 
praise." 
■  "  Yes,  that's  just  it ;  he  puts  one's  back  up,"  said  Tom. 
"  But  the  Captain  is  a  splendid  fellow,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  a  little  too  easy,  at  least  with  men  like  Blake 
and  Drysdale.  He  ought  to  make  them  train,  or  turn  them 
out." 

"  But  who  could  he  get  1  There's  nobody  else.  If  you 
would  pull,  now — why  shouldn't  you  1  I'm  sure  it  would 
make  us  all  right." 

"  I  don't  subscribe  to  the  club,"  said  Hardy  ;  "  I  wish  I 
had,  for  I  should  like  to  have  pulled  with  you,  and  behind 
Jervis,  this  year." 

"Do  let  me  tell  the  Captain,"  said  Tom  ;  "I'm  sure  he'd 
manage  it  somehow." 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  too  late,"  said  Hardy  ;  "  I  cut  myself  off 
from  everything  of  the  sort  two  years  ago,  and  I'm  beginning 
|o  think  I  was  a  fool  for  my  pains," 


92  TOM    BROWN   AT   OXFOED. 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  the  subject  at  the  time,  but  Tom 
went  away  in  great  spiiits  at  having  drawn  this  confession 
out  of  Hardy — the  more  so,  perhaps,  because  he  flattered 
himself  that  he  had  had  something  to  say  to  the  change  in 
his  friend. 


CHAPTER    X. 

SUMMER    TERM, 

flow  many  spots  in  life  are  there  which  will  bear  comparison 
with  the  beginning  of  our  second  term  at  the  University  1 
So  far  as  external  circumstances  are  concerned,  it  seems  hard 
to  know  what  a  man  could  iind  to  ask  for  at  that  period  of 
his  life,  if  a  fairy  godmother  were  to  alight  in  his  rooms  and 
offer  him  the  usual  three  wishes.  The  sailor  who  had  asked 
for  "  all  the  grog  in  the  world,"  and  "  all  the  baccy  in  the 
world,"  was  indeed  driven  to  "  a  little  more  baccy  "  as  his 
third  requisition  ;  but,  at  any  rate,  his  two  first  requisitions 
were  to  some  extent  grounded  on  what  he  held  to  be  sub- 
stantial wants  ;  he  felt  himself  actually  limited  in  the  matters 
of  grog  and  tobacco.  The  condition  which  Jack  would  have 
been  in  as  a  wisher,  if  he  had  been  started  on  his  quest  with 
the  assurance  that  his  utmost  desires  in  the  direction  of 
alcohol  and  narcotics  were  already  provided  for,  and  must  be 
left  out  of  the  question,  is  the  only  one  affording  a  pretty 
exact  parallel  to  the  case  we  are  considering.  In  our  second 
term  we  are  no  longer  freshmen,  and  begin  to  feel  ourselves 
at  home,  while  both  "  smalb  "  and  "  greats  "  are  sufficiently 
distant  to  be  altogether  ignored  if  we  are  that  way  inclined, 
or  to  be  looked  forward  to  with  confidence  that  the  game  is 
in  our  own  hands  if  we  are  reading  men.  Our  financial 
position — unless  we  have  exercised  rare  ingenuity  in  in- 
volving ourselves — is  all  that  heart  can  desire ;  we  have 
ample  allowances  paid  in  quarterly  to  the  University  bankers 
without  thought  or  trouble  of  ours,  and  our  credit  is  at  its 
zenith.  It  is  a  part  of  our  recognised  duty  to  repay  the 
hospitality  we  have  received  as  freshmen ;  and  all  men  will 
be  sure  to  come  to  our  first  parties,  to  see  how  we  do  the 
thing ;  it  will  be  our  own  faults  if  we  do  not  keep  them  in 
future.  We  have  not  had  time  to  injure  our  characters  to 
any  material  extent  Avith  the  authorities  of  our  OAvn  college, 
or  of  the  University.  Our  spirits  are  never  likely  to  be 
higher,  or  our  digestions  better.  These  and  many  other 
comforts  and  advantages  environ  the  fortunate  youth  returning 


SUMMER   TERM.  93 

to  Oxford  after  his  first  vacation  ;  thrice  fortunate,  however, 
if,  as  happened  in  our  hero's  case,  it  is  Easter  term  to  which 
he  is  retiu-ning ;  for  that  Easter  term,  with  the  four  days' 
vacation,  and  Httle  Trinity  term  at  the  end  of  it,  is  sui-ely  the 
cream  of  the  Oxford  year,  Tlien,  even  in  this  our  stern 
northern  climate,  the  sun  is  beginning  to  have  power,  the 
days  have  lengthened  out,  great-coats  are  unnecessary  at 
morning  chapel,  and  the  miseries  of  numbed  hands  and 
shivering  skins  no  longer  accompany  every  puU  on  the  river 
and  canter  on  BuUingdon.  In  Christ  Church  meadows  and 
the  college  gardens  the  birds  are  making  sweet  music  in  the 
tall  elms.  You  may  almost  hear  the  thick  grass  growing, 
and  the  buds  on  tree  and  shrub  are  changing  from  brown, 
red,  or  purple,  to  emerald  green  under  your  eyes ;  the 
glorious  old  city  is  putting  on  her  best  looks  and  bursting  out 
into  laughter  and  song.  In  a  few  weeks  the  races  begin,  and 
Cowley  marsh  will  be  alive  with  white  tents  and  joyous 
cricketers.  A  quick  ear,  on  the  towhig-path  by  the  Gut, 
may  feast  at  one  time  on  those  three  sweet  sounds,  the  thud 
thud  of  the  eight-oar,  the  crack  of  the  riiies  at  the  Weirs, 
and  the  click  of  the  bat  on  the  Magdalen  ground.  And  then 
Commemoration  rises  in  the  background,  with  its  clouds  of 
fair  visitors,  and  visions  of  excursions  to  Woodstock  and 
Xuneham  in  the  summer  days — of  windows  open  on  to  the 
old  quadrangles  in  the  long  still  evenings,  tlirough  which 
silver  laughter  and  strains  of  sweet  music,  not  made  by  man, 
steal  out  and  puzzle  the  old  cehbate  jackdaws,  peering  down 
from  the  battlements  with  heads  on  one  side.  To  crown  all, 
long  vacation,  beginning  with  the  run  to  Henley  regatta,  or 
up  to  town  to  see  the  match  with  Cambridge  at  Lord's,  and 
taste  some  of  the  sweets  of  the  season,  before  starting  on 
some  pleasure  tour  or  reading  party,  or  dropping  back  into 
the  quiet  pleasures  of  English  country  life  !  Surely,  the  lot 
of  young  Englishmen  who  frequent  our  universities  is  cast  in 
pleasant  places.  The  country  has  a  right  to  expect  some- 
thing from  those  for  whom  she  finds  such  a  life  as  this  in  the 
years  when  enjoyment  is  keenest. 

Tom  was  certainly  alive  to  the  advantages  of  the  situation, 
and  entered  on  his  kingdom  without  any  kind  of  scruple. 
He  was  very  glad  to  find  things  so  pleasant,  and  quite 
resolved  to  make  the  best  he  could  of  them.  Then  he  was  in 
a  particularly  good  humour  with  himself ;  for,  in  deference 
to  the  advice  of  Hardy,  he  had  actually  fixed  on  the  books 
which  he  should  send  in  for  his  little-go  examination  before 
going  down  for  the  Easter  vacation,  and  had  read  them 
through  at  home,  devoting  an  hour  or  two  almost  daily  to 


94  TOM  BEOWN   AT   OXFOED. 

this  laudaUe  occupation.  So  he  felt  himself  entitled  to  take 
things  easily  on  his  return.  He  had  brought  back  with  him 
two  large  hampers  of  good  sound  wine,  a  gift  from  his  father, 
who  had  a  horror  of  letting  his  son  set  before  his  friends 
the  fire-water  which  is  generally  sold  to  the  undergraduate. 
Tom  found  that  his  father's  notions  of  the  rate  of  consumption 
prevalent  in  the  university  were  wild  in  the  extreme.  "  In 
his  time,"  the  squire  said,  "eleven  men  came  to  his  first 
wine  party,  and  he  had  opened  nineteen  bottles  of  port  for 
them.  He  was  very  glad  to  hear  that  the  habits  of  the 
place  had  changed  so  much  for  the  better ;  and  as  Tom 
wouldn't  want  nearly  so  much  wine,  he  should  have  it  out  of 
an  older  bin."  Accordingly  the  port  which  Tom  employed 
the  first  hour  after  his  leturn  in  stacking  carefully  away  in 
his  cellar,  had  been  more  than  twelve  years  in  bottle,  and  he 
thought  with  unmixed  satisfaction  of  the  pleasing  efiect  it 
would  have  on  Jervis  and  Miller,  and  the  one  or  two  other 
men  who  knew  good  wine  from  bad,  and  guided  public 
opinion  on  the  subject,  and  of  the  social  importance  which 
he  would  soon  attain  from  the  reputation  of  giving  good 
wine. 

The  idea  of  entertaining,  of  being  hospitable,  is  a  pleasant 
and  fascinating  one  to  most  young  men ;  but  the  act  soon 
gets  to  be  a  bore  to  all  but  a  few  curiously  constituted 
individuals.  With  these  hospitality  becomes  first  a  passion 
and  then  a  faith — a  faith  the  i:)ractice  of  which,  in  the  cases 
of  some  of  its  professors,  reminds  one  strongly  of  the  hints 
on  such  subjects  scattered  about  the  New  Testament.  Most 
of  us  feel,  when  our  friends  leave  us,  a  certain  sort  of 
satisfaction,  not  unHke  that  of  paying  a  bill ;  they  have  been 
done  for,  and  can't  expect  anything  more  for  a  long  time. 
Such  thoughts  never  occur  to  your  really  hospitable  man. 
Long  years  of  narrow  means  cannot  hinder  him  from  keeping 
open  house  for  whoever  wants  to  come  to  him,  and  setting 
the  best  of  everything  before  all  comers.  He  has  no  notion 
of  giving  you  anything  but  the  best  he  can  command,  if  it  be 
only  fresh  porter  from  the  nearest  mews.  He  asks  himself 
not,  "  Ought  I  to  invite  A  or  B  ?  do  I  owe  liim  anything  1 " 
but,  "  Would  A  or  B  like  to  come  here  1 "  Give  me  these 
men's  houses  for  real  enjoyment,  though  you  never  get  any- 
thing very  choice  there, — (how  can  a  man  produce  old  wine 
who  gives  his  oldest  every  day  ?) — seldom  much  elbow  room 
or  orderly  arrangement.  The  high  arts  of  gastronomy  and 
scientific  drinking,  so  much  valued  in  our  highly  civilized 
community,  are  wholly  unheeded  by  him,  are  altogether 
above  him,  are  cultivated  in  fact  by  quite  another  set,  who 


STJMMEE  TEEM.  95 

have  very  little  of  the  genuine  spirit  of  hospitality  in  them  ; 
■fiom  whose  tables,  should  one  by  chance  happen  upon  them, 
one  rises,  certainly  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  and  ex- 
pansion, chiefly  physical,  but  entirely  without  that  expansion 
of  heart  which  one  gets  at  the  scramble  of  the  hospitable 
man.  So  that  we  are  driven  to  remark,  even  in  such  every- 
day matters  as  these,  that  it  is  the  invisible,  the  spiritual, 
which  after  all  gives  value  and  reality  even  to  dinners  ;  and, 
with  Solomon,  to  prefer  to  the  most  touching  diner  Russe, 
the  diuTier  of  herbs  where  love  is,  though  I  trust  that  neither 
we  nor  Solomon  should  object  to  weU-dressed  cutlets  with 
our  salad,  if  they  happened  to  be  going. 

Readers  will  scarcely  need  to  be  told  that  one  of  the  first 
things  Tom  did,  after  depositing  his  luggage  and  unpacking 
his  wine,  was  to  call  at  Hardy's  rooms,  where  he  found  his 
friend  deep  as  usual  in  his  books,  the  hard-worked  atlases  and 
dictionaries  of  all  sorts  taking  up  more  space  than  ever. 
After  the  first  hearty  greetings,  Tom  occupied  his  old  place 
with  much  satisfaction, 

"How  long  have  you  been  up,  old  fellow?"  he  began; 
"  you  look  quite  settled." 

"  I  only  went  home  for  a  week.  Well,  what  have  you 
been  doing  in  the  vacation  ?" 

*'  Oh,  there  was  nothing  much  going  on  ;  so,  amongst 
oth'r  things,  I've  nearly  floored  my  little-go  work." 

"  .f^ravo  !  you'll  find  the  comfort  of  it  now.  I  hardly 
thougut  you  would  take  to  the  grind  so  easily." 

"  It's  pleasant  enough  for  a  spurt,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  I  shall 
never  manage  a  horrid  perpetual  grind  like  yours.  But  what 
in  the  world  have  you  been  doing  to  your  walls  1 " 

Tom  might  well  ask,  for  the  corners  of  Hardy's  room  were 
covered  with  sheets  of  paper  of  different  sizes,  pasted  against 
the  wall  in  groups.  In  the  line  of  sight,  from  about  the 
height  of  four  to  six  feet,  there  was  scarcely  an  inch  of  the 
original  paper  visible,  and  round  each  centre  group  there  were 
outlying  patches  and  streamers,  stretching  towards  floor  or 
ceiling,  or  away  nearly  to  the  bookcases  or  fireplace. 

"  Well,  don't  you  thiuk  it  a  great  improvement  on  the  old 
paper  ?  "  said  Hardy.  "  I  shall  be  out  of  rooms  next  term, 
and  it  will  be  a  hint  to  the  College  that  the  rooms  want 
papering.  You're  no  judge  of  such  matters,  or  I  should 
ask  you  whether  you  don't  see  great  artistic  taste  in  the 
arrangement." 

"  Wliy,  they're  nothing  but  maps,  and  lists  of  names  and 
dates,"  said  Tom,  who  had  got  up  to  examine  the  decorations. 
"And  what  in  the  world  are  all  these  queer  pins  fori"  ha 


96  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFORD. 

weut  on,  pulling  a  strong  pin  with  a  large  red  sealiug-was 
head  out  of  the  map  nearest  to  him. 

"  Hullo  !  take  care  there  ;  what  are  you  about  ?"  shouted 
Hardy,  getting  up  and  hastening  to  the  corner.  "  Why,  you 
irreverent  beggar,  those  pins  are  the  famous  statesmen  and 
warriors  of  Greece  and  Eome." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon ;  I  didn't  know  I  was  in  such 
iugust  company  ; "  saying  which,  Tom  proceeded  to  stick  the 
red-headed  pin  back  into  the  walk 

"  Now,  just  look  at  that,"  said  Hardy,  takuig  the  pin  out 
from  the  place  where  Tom  had  stuck  it.  "  Pretty  doings  there 
would  be  amongst  them  with  your  management.  This  pin  is 
Brasidas  ;  you've  taken  him  aw^ay  from  Naupactus,  where  ho 
was  watching  the  eleven  Athenian  galleys  anchored  under  the 
temple  of  Apollo,  and  stuck  him  down  right  in  the  middle 
of  the  Pnyx,  -where  he  will  be  instantly  torn  in  pieces  by  a 
ruthless  and  reckless  mob.  You  call  yourself  a  Tory  indeed  ! 
However,  'twas  always  the  same  with  you  Tories  ;  calculating, 
cruel,  and  jealous.  Use  your  leaders  up,  and  throw  them 
over — that's  the  golden  rule  of  aristocracies." 

'  Hang  Brasidas,"  said  Tom,  laughing ;  "  stick  him  back 
at  Naupactns  again.  Here,  which  is  Cleon  ?  The  scoundrel ! 
give  me  hold  of  him,  and  I'll  put  him  in  a  hot  berth." 

"  That's  be,  with  the  yellow  head.  Let  him  alone,  1  teU 
you,  or  all  will  be  hopeless  confusion  when  Grey  comes  for 
his  lectm-e.     We're  only  in  the  third  year  of  the  war." 

"  I  like  your  chaff  about  Tories  sacrificing  their  great  men," 
taid  Tom,  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets  to  avoid  tempta- 
tion. "  How  about  your  precious  democracy,  old  fellow  1 
Which  is  Socrates  1  " 

"  Here,  the  dear  old  boy  ! — this  pin  with  the  great  grey 
lead,  in  the  middle  of  Athens,  you  see.  I  pride  myself  on 
my  Athens.  Here's  the  Pirajus  and  the  long  walls,  and  the 
niU  of  Mars.     Isn't  it  as  good  as  a  picture  ? " 

"  Well,  it  is  better  than  most  maps,  I  think/'  said  Tom; 
"  but  you're  not  going  to  slip  out  so  easily.  I  want  to 
know  whether  your  pet  democracy  did  or  did  not  mui'der 
Socrates." 

"  Pm  not  bound  to  defend  democracies.  But  look  at  my 
pins.  It  may  be  the  natural  fondness  of  a  parent,  but  I 
declare  they  seem  to  me  to  have  a  great  deal  of  character,  con- 
sidering the  material.  You'll  guess  them  at  once,  I'm  sure, 
if  you  mark  the  colour  and  shape  of  the  wax.  This  one  now, 
for  instance,  who  is  he  1 " 

"  AJcibiades,"  answered  Tom,  doubtfully. 

"  AJcibiades  !  "  shouted  Hardy  ;  "  you  fresh  from  Rugby, 


SUMIVIER  TERM.  97 

and  not  know  your  Thucydides  better  than  that  1  There's 
Alcibiades,  that  little  purj^le-headed,  foppish  pin,  by  Socrates. 
This  rusty-coloured  one  is  that  respectable  old  stick-in-the- 
mud,  Nicias." 

**  Well,  but  you've  made  Alcibiades  nearly  the  smallest  of 
the  whole  lot,"  said  Tom. 

"So  he  was,  to  my  mind,"  said  Hardy;  "just  the  sort  of 
insolent  young  ruffian  whom  I  should  have  liked  to  buy  at 
my  price,  and  sell  at  his  own.  He  must  have  been  very  like 
some  of  our  gentlemen-commoners,  with  the  addition  of 
brains." 

"  I  should  really  think,  though,"  said  Tom,  "it  must  be  a 
capital  plan  for  making  you  remember  the  history." 

"It  is,  I  flatter  myself.  I've  long  had  the  idea,  but  I 
should  never  have  worked  it  out  and  found  the  value  of  it 
but  for  Grey.  I  invented  it  to  coach  him  in  his  history. 
You  see  we  are  in  the  Grecian  corner.  Over  there  is  the 
Eoman.  You'll  find  Livy  and  Tacitus  worked  out  there, 
just  as  Herodotus  and  Thucydides  are  here ;  and  the  pins 
are  stuck  for  the  Second  Punic  War,  where  we  are  just  now. 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Grey  got  his  first,  after  all,  he's  pick- 
ing up  so  quick  in  my  corners ;  and  says  he  never  forgets 
any  set  of  events  when  he  has  pricked  them  out  with  the 
pins." 

"  Is  he  working  at  that  school  stiU  V  asked  Tom. 

"  Yes,  as  hard  as  ever.  He  didn't  go  down  for  the  vacation, 
ind  I  really  believe  it  was  because  the  curate  told  him  the 
school  would  go  wrong  if  he  went  away." 

"  It's  very  plucky  of  him,  but  I  do  think  he's  a  gi'eat  fool 
not  to  knock  it  off  now  tUl  he  has  passed,  don't  you  1 " 

"  'No,"  said  Hardy  ;  "  he  is  getting  more  good  there  than 
he  can  ever  get  in  the  schools,  though  I  hope  he'll  do  well  in 
them  too." 

"  Well,  I  hope  so  ;  for  he  deserves  it.  And  now,  Hardy, 
to  change  the  subject,  I'm  going  to  give  my  first  wine  next 
Thursday  ;  and  here's  the  first  card  which  has  gone  out  for  it. 
You'll  promise  me  to  come,  now,  won't  you  1 " 

"  What  a  hurry  you're  in,"  said  Hardy,  taking  the  card, 
which  he  put  on  nis  mantel-piece,  after  examining  it. 

"But  youll  promise  to  come,  now?" 

"  I'm  very  hard  at  work ;  I  can't  be  sure." 

"  You  needn't  stay  above  half  an  hour.  I've  brought 
back  some  famous  wine  from  the  governor's  cellar ;  and 
T  want  so  to  get  you  and  Jervis  together.  He  is  sure  to 
come." 

"  Why,  that's  the  beU  for  chapel  beginning  already/  said 

H 


98  TOM    BROWN    AT   OXFORD. 

Hardy ;  "  I  had  no  notion  it  was  so  late.  I  must  be  off,  to 
put  the  new  servitor  up  to  his  work.  Will  you  come  in  aftor 
halH" 

"  Yes,  if  you  wUl  come  to  me  next  Thursday." 

"  We'll  talk  about  it.  But  mind  you  come  to-night :  for 
you'll  find  me  working  Grey  in  the  Punic  Wars,  and  you'll 
see  how  the  pins  act.     I'm  very  proud  of  my  show." 

And  so  Hardy  went  off  !o  chapel,  and  Tom  to  Drysdale's 
rooms,  not  at  all  satisfied  that  he  had  made  Hardy  safe.  He 
found  Drysdale  lolling  on  his  sofa,  as  usual,  and  fondling 
Jack.  He  had  just  arrived,  and  his  servant  and  the  scout 
were  unpacking  his  portmanteaus.  He  seemed  pleased  to 
see  Tom,  but  looked  languid  and  used  up. 

"  Where  have  you  been  this  vacation  1 "  said  Tom  ;  "  you 
look  seedy." 

"  You  may  say  that,"  said  Drysdale.  "  Here,  Henry,  get 
out  a  bottle  of  Schiedam.  Have  a  taste  of  bitters  1  there's 
nothing  like  it  to  set  one's  digestion  right." 

"  No,  thank'ee,"  said  Tom,  rejecting  the  glass  which  Hem-y 
proffered  him  ;  "  my  appetite  don't  want  improving." 

"  You're  lucky,  then,"  said  Drysdale.  "  Ah,  that's  the 
right  stuff!     I  feel  better  already." 

"  But  where  have  you  been  1 " 

"  Oh,  in  the  little  village.  It's  no  use  being  in  the  country 
at  this  time  of  year.  I  just  went  up  to  Limmer's,  and  there 
I  stuck,  with  two  or  three  more,  tiU  to-day." 

"I  can't  stand  London  for  more  than  a  week,"  said  Tom. 
«  What  did  you  do  all  day  ?  " 

"We  hadn't  much  to  say  to  daylight,"  said  Drysdale 
"What  with  theatres,  and  sparring-cribs,  and  the  Coal-hole 
and  Cider- cellars,  and  a  little  play  in  St.  James's  Street  now 
and  then,  one  wasn't  up  to  early  rising.  However,  I  was 
better  than  the  rest,  for  I  had  generally  breakfasted  by  two 
o'clock." 

"No  wonder  you  look  seedy.  You'd  much  better  havo 
been  in  the  country." 

"  I  should  have  been  more  in  pocket,  at  any  rate,"  said 
Drysdale.  "  By  Jove,  how  it  runs  away  with  the  ready ! 
I'm  fairly  cleaned  out ;  and  if  I  haven't  luck  at  Van  John, 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know  how  I'm  to  get  through  term.  But, 
look  here,  here's  a  bundle  of  the  newest  songs — first-rate,  some 
of  them."  And  he  threw  some  papers  across  to  Tom,  who 
glanced  at  them  without  being  at  all  edified. 

"  You're  going  to  pull  regularly,  I  hope,  this  term,  Drysdale  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so ;  it's  a  cheap  amusement,  and  I  want  a 
little  training  for  a  change." 


SUM5fER   TERM.  99 

"  Thaf  s  all  right." 

"I've  brough-t  down  some  dresses  for  our  gipsy  business, 
by  the  way.     I  didn't  forget  that.     Is  Blake  back  t " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  we  shan't  have  time 
before  the  races." 

"  Well,  afterwards  will  do  ;  though  the  days  oughtn't  to 
be  too  long.     I'm  all  for  a  little  darlaiess  in  masquerading." 

"There's  five  o'clock  striking.  Are  you  going  to  dine  in 
haU?" 

"!N'o  ;  I  shall  go  to  the  Mitre,  and  get  a  broil." 

"  Then  I'm  off.  Let's  see, — will  you  come  and  wine  with 
me  next  Thursday  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  only  send  us  a  card,  'to  remind.'  "* 

"  All  right !  "  said  Tom,  and  went  oii  to  hall,  feeling  dis- 
satisfied and  uncomfortable  about  his  fast  friend,  for  whom 
he  had  a  sincere  regard. 

After  hall,  Tom  made  a  short  round  amongst  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  then,  giving  himself  up  to  the  strongest  attraction, 
returned  to  Hardy's  rooms,  comforting  himseK  with  the 
thought  that  it  really  must  be  an  act  of  Christian  charity  to 
take  such  a  terrible  reader  off  his  books  for  once  in  a  way, 
when  his  conscience  pricked  him  for  intruding  on  Hardy 
during  his  hours  of  work.  He  found  Grey  there,  who  was 
getting  up  his  Eoman  history,  under  Hardy's  guidance  ;  and 
the  two  were  working  the  pins  on  the  maps  and  lists  in  the 
Roman  corner  when  Tom  arrived.  He  begged  them  not  to 
stop,  and  very  soon  was  as  much  interested  in  what  they  were 
doing  as  if  he  also  were  going  into  the  schools  in  May ;  for 
Hardy  had  a  way  of  throwing  life  into  what  he  was  talking 
about,  and,  like  many  men  with  strong  opinions,  and  passion- 
ate natures,  either  carried  his  hearers  off  their  legs  and  away 
with  him  altogether,  or  roused  every  spark  of  combativeness 
in  them.  The  latter  was  the  effect  which  his  lecture  on  the 
Punic  Wars  had  on  Tom.  He  made  several  protests  as  Hardy 
went  on  ;  but  Grey's  anxious  looks  kept  him  from  going  fairly 
into  action,  till  Hardy  stuck  the  black  pin,  which  represented 
Scipio,  triumphantly  in  the  middle  of  Carthage,  and,  turning 
round  said,  "  And  now  for  some  tea,  Grey,  before  you  have 
to  turn  out." 

Tom  opened  fire  while  the  tea  was  brewing. 

"  You  couldn't  say  anything  bad  enough  about  aristocracies 
this  morning,  Hardy,  and  now  to-night  you  are  crowing  over 
the  success  of  the  heaviest  and  cruelest  oligarchy  that  ever 
lived,  and  praising  them  up  to  the  skies." 

"  Hullo  !  here's  a  breeze  ! "  said  Hardy,  smiling ;  "  but  I 
rejoice,  0  Brown,  in  that  they  thrashed  the  Carthaginians  ? 

n2 


100  TOM  i^OWN  AT   OXFOED 

and  not,  as  you  seem  to  think,  in  that  they,  being  aristocrats, 
tlirashed  the  Carthaginians ;  for  oligarchs  they  were  not  at 
tliis  time." 

"  At  any  rate  they  answer  to  the  Spartans  in  the  struggle, 
and  the  Carthaginians  to  the  Athenians  ;  and  yet  all  your 
sympathies  are  with  the  Eomans  to-night  in  the  Punic  Wars, 
though  they  were  with  the  Athenians  before  dinner." 

"I  dery  your  position  The  Carthaginians  were  nothing 
but  a  great  trading  aristocracy — with  a  glorious  family  or  two 
I  grant  you,  like  that  of  Hannibal ;  but,  on  the  whole,  a 
dirty,  bargain-driving,  buy-cheap-and-sell-dear  aristocracy — of 
whom  the  world  was  well  rid.  They  like  the  Athenians 
indeed  !  Why,  just  look  what  the  two  peoples  have  left 
behind  them " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Tom  ;  "but  we  only  know  the  Cartha- 
ginians through  the  reports  of  their  destroyers.  Your  heroes 
tram})led  them  out  with  hoofs  of  iron." 

"  Do  you  think  the  Eoman  hoof  could  have  trampled  out 
their  Homer  if  they  ever  had  one  ? "  said  Hardy.  "  The 
Romans  conquered  Greece  too,  remember." 

"  Eut  Greece  was  never  so  near  beating  them." 

"  True.  Eut  I  hold  to  my  point.  Carthage  was  the  mother 
of  all  hucksters,  compassing  sea  and  land  to  sell  her  wares." 

"And  no  bad  line  of  hfe  for  a  nation.  At  least  English- 
men ought  to  think  so." 

"1^0,  they  ought  not;  at  least  if  'Punica  fides'  is  to  be 
the  rule  of  trade.  Selling  any  amount  of  Erummagem  wares 
never  did  nation  or  man  much  good,  and  never  will.  Eh, 
Grey  1  " 

Grey  winced  at  being  appealed  to,  but  remarked  that  he 
hoped  the  Church  would  yet  be  able  to  save  England  from 
the  fate  of  Tyre  and  Carthage,  the  great  trading  nations  of 
the  old  world  :  and  then,  swallowing  his  tea,  and  looking  as  if 
he  had  been  caught  robbing  a  henroost,  he  made  a  sudden 
exit,  and  hurried  away  out  of  college  to  the  night-school. 

"What  a  pity  he  is  so  odd  and  shy,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  should 
so  like  to  know  more  of  him." 

"  It  is  a  pity.  He  is  much  better  when  he  is  alone  with 
me.  I  think  he  has  heard  from  some  of  the  set  that  you  are 
a  furious  Protestant,  and  sees  an  immense  amount  of  stiif- 
neckedness  in  you." 

"But  about  England  and  Carthage,"  said  Tom,  shirking 
the  subject  of  his  own  peculiarities  ;  "  you  don't  really  think 
m  like  them  ]  It  gave  me  a  turn  to  hear  you  translating 
*  Punica  fides '  into  Erummagem  wares  just  now." 

"I  think  that  successful  trade   is  our  rock  ahead.     The 


SOTIMER  TERM.  101 

devil  who  holds  new  markets  and  twenty  per  cent,  profits  in 
his  gift  is  the  devil  that  England  has  most  to  fear  from. 
*  Because  of  unrighteous  dealings,  and  riches  gotten  hy  deceit, 
the  kingdom  is  translated  from  one  people  to  another/  said 
the  wise  man.  Think  of  that  opium  war  the  other  day  :  I 
don't  believe  we  can  get  over  many  more  such  businesses  as 
that.  Grey  falls  back  on  the  Church,  you  see,  to  save  the 
nation  ;  but  the  Church  he  dreams  of  vnll  never  do  it.  Is 
there  any  that  can  ?  There  must  be  surely,  or  we  have 
believed  a  lie.  Eiit  this  work  of  making  trade  righteous, 
of  Christianizing  trade,  looks  Hke  the  very  hardest  the 
Gospel  has  ever  had  to  take  in  hand — in  England  at  any 
rate." 

Hardy  spoke  slowly  and  doubtfully,  and  paused  as  if  asking 
for  Tom's  opinion. 

"  I  never  heard  it  put  in  that  way.  I  know  very  little  of 
politics  or  the  state  of  England.  But  come,  now ;  the 
putting  down  the  slave-trade  and  comi^ensating  our  planters, 
that  shows  that  we  are  not  sold  to  the  trade  devil  yet, 
sui'ely." 

"  I  don't  think  we  are.  E"o,  thank  God,  there  are  plenty 
of  signs  that  we  are  likely  to  make  a  good  fight  of  it 
yet." 

They  talked  together  for  another  hour,  di'awing  their 
ohairs  round  to  the  fire,  and  looking  dreamily  mto  the  embers, 
as  is  the  wont  of  men  who  are  throwing  out  suggestions,  and 
helping  one  another  to  think,  rather  than  arguing.  At  the 
end  of  that  time,  Tom  left  Hardy  to  his  books,  and  went 
away  laden  with  several  new  ideas,  one  of  the  clearest  of 
which  was  that  he  was  awfully  ignorant  of  the  contemporary 
history  of  his  own  country,  and  that  it  was  the  thing  of  all 
others  which  he  ought  to  be  best  informed  on,  and  thinking 
most  about.  So,  being  of  an  impetuous  turn  of  mind,  he 
went  straight  to  his  rooms  to  commence  his  new  study, 
wnere,  after  diligent  hunting,  the  only  food  of  the  kind  he 
required  which  turned  up  was  the  last  number  of  Bell's  Life 
from  the  pocket  of  his  greatcoat.  Upon  this  he  fell  to  work, 
in  default  of  anything  better,  and  was  soon  deep  in  the  P.R 
column,  which  was  full  of  interesting  speculations  as  to  the 
chances  of  Bungaree  in  his  forthcoming  campaign  against 
the  British  middle-weights.  By  the  time  he  had  skimmed 
through  the  well-known  sheets,  he  was  satisfied  that  the 
columns  of  his  old  acquaintance  were  not  the  place,  except  in 
the  police  reports,  where  much  could  be  learnt  about  the 
present  state  or  future  prospects  of  England.  Then,  the 
first  evening  of  term  being  a  restless  time,  he  wandered  out 


102  TOM  BIlO^^^?  at  oxfoed. 

again,  and  before  long  landed,  as  his  custom  was,  at  Drysdale's 
door. 

On  entering  the  room  he  found  Drysdale  and  Blake  alone 
together,  the  former  looking  more  serious  than  Tom  had  ever 
seen  him  before.  As  for  Blake,  the  restless,  haggard  ex- 
pression sat  more  heavily  than  ever  on  his  face,  sadly  marring 
its  beauty.  It  was  clear  that  they  changed  the  subject  of 
their  talk  abruptly  on  his  entrance  ;  so  Tom  looked  anywhere 
except  straight  before  him  as  he  was  greeting  Blake.  He 
really  felt  very  sorry  for  him  at  the  moment.  However,  in 
another  five  minutes,  he  was  in  fits  of  laughter  over  Blake's 
description  of  the  conversation  between  himself  and  the 
coachman  who  had  driven  the  Glo'ster  day-mail  by  which  he 
had  come  up :  in  which  conversation,  nevertheless,  when 
Tom  came  to  think  it  over,  and  try  to  repeat  it  afterwards, 
the  most  facetious  parts  seemed  to  be  the  "  sez  he's  "  and  the 
"  sez  I's  "  with  which  Jehu  larded  his  stories  ;  so  he  gave  up 
the  attempt,  wondering  what  he  could  have  found  in  it  to 
laugh  at. 

"By  the  way,  Blake,"  said  Drysdale,  "how  about  our 
excursion  into  Berkshire  masquerading  this  term  1  Are  you 
game  1 " 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Blake  ;  "  I  really  must  make  the  most 
of  such  time  as  I  have  left,  if  I'm  to  go  into  the  schools  this 
term." 

"If  there's  one  thing  Avhich  spoils  Oxford,  it  is  those 
schools,"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  they  get  in  the  way  of  everything. 
I  ought  to  be  going  up  for  smalls  myself  next  term,  and  I 
haven't  opened  a  book  yet,  and  don't  mean.  Follow  a  good 
example,  old  fellow,  you're  cock-sure  of  your  first,  everybody 
knows." 

"  I  wish  everybody  would  back  his  opinion,  and  give  me 
a  shade  of  odds.  Why,  I  have  scarcely  thought  of  my 
history." 

"Why  the  d — 1  should  they  make  such  a  fuss  about 
history?  One  knows  perfectly  well  that  those  old  black- 
guard heathens  were  no  better  than  they  should  be  ;  and 
what  good  it  can  do  to  lumber  one's  head  with  who  their  grand- 
mothers were,  and  what  they  ate,  and  when  and  where  and 
why  they  had  their  stupid  brains  knocked  out,  I  can't  see  for 
the  life  of  me." 

"Excellently  well  put.  Where  did  you  pick  up  such 
sound  views,  Drysdale  ?  But  you're  not  examiner  yet ;  and, 
on  the  whole,  I  must  rub  up  my  history  somehow.  I  wish  I 
knew  how  to  do  it." 

"  Can't  you  put  on  a  coach  1 "  said  Drysdale, 


STOOIER   TERM.  ]03 

"  I  have  oue  on,  but  history  is  his  -weak  pohit,"  said  Blake. 

"  I  think  I  can  help  you,"  said  Tom.  "  I've  just  been 
liearing  a  lecture  in  Eoman  history,  and  one  that  won't  be  so 
easy  to  forget  as  most ; "  and  he  went  on  to  explain  Hardy's 
plans,  to  which  Blake  listened  eagerly. 

"  Capital  !  "  he  said,  when  Tom  had  finished.  "  In  whose 
rooms  did  you  say  they  are  1 " 

"  In  Hardy's,  and  he  works  at  them  every  night  with 
Grey." 

"  That's  the  queer  big  servitor,  his  particular  pal,"  put  in 
Drysdale  ;  "  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes." 

"  You  don't  know  him,"  retorted  Tom  ;  "  and  the  less  you 
say  about  him  the  better." 

"  I  know  he  wears  highlows  and  short  flannels,  and — " 

"Would  you  mind  asking  Hardy  to  let  me  come  to  his 
lectures  1  "  interrupted  Blake,  averting  the  strong  language 
which  was  rising  to  Tom's  lips.  "  I  think  they  seem  jiist 
the  tldngs  I  want.  I  shouldn't  like  to  offer  to  pay  him, 
unless  you  think — " 

"  I'm  quite  sure,"  interrupted  Tom,  "  that  he  won't  take 
anything.  I  will  ask  him  to-morrow  whether  he  will  let  you 
come,  and  he  is  such  a  kind  good  fellow  that  I'm  almost  sure 
he  wiU." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  your  pal,  too,  Brown/'  said 
Drysdale  ;  "  you  must  introduce  me*  with  Blake." 

"  K'o,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do,"  said  Tom. 

"  Then  I  shall  introduce  myself,"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  see  if  I 
don't  sit  next  him,  now,  at  your  wine  on  Thursday." 

Here  Drysdale's  scout  entered,  with  two  notes,  and  ■s\dshed 
to  know  if  Mr.  Drysdale  would  require  anything  more. 
Nothing  but  hot  water  ;  he  could  put  the  kettle  on,  Drysdale 
said,  and  go ;  and  Avhile  the  scout  was  fulfilling  his  orders, 
he  got  up  carelessly,  whistling,  and  walking  to  the  fire,  read 
the  notes  by  the  light  of  one  of  the  candles  which  were 
burning  on  the  mantel-piece.  Blake  was  watching  him 
eagerl}'',  and  Tom  saw  this,  and  made  some  awkward  efforts 
to  go  on  talking  about  the  advantages  of  Hardy's  plan  for 
learning  history.  But  he  was  talking  to  deaf  ears,  and  soon 
came  to  a  stand  stilL  He  saw  Drysdale  crumple  up  the  notes 
in  ills  hand  and  shove  them  into  his  pocket.  After  standing 
for  a  few  seconds  in  the  same  position,  with  his  back  to  them, 
he  turned  round  with  a  careless  air,  and  sauntered  to  the 
table  where  they  were  sitting. 

"  Let's  see,  what  were  we  saying  1 "  he  began.  *'  Oh, 
about  your  eccentric  pal,  Brown." 

"  You've  answers  from  both  ] "  interrupted  Blake.     Diys- 


104  TOM  BROWN  AT   OXFORD. 

dale  nodded,  aud  was  begmning  to   speak    again    to  Tom, 

■when  Blake  got  up  and  said,  with  white  lips,  "  I  miist  see 

them." 

"  No,  never  mind,  what  does  it  matter  ?  " 

"  Matter  !  by  Heaven,  I  must  and  will  see  them  now." 

Tom  saw  at  once  that  he  had  better  go,  and  so  took  up  his 

cap,  wished  them  good  night,  and  went  off  to  his  own  rooms 
He  might  have  been  sitting  there  for  about  twenty  minutes, 

when  Drysdale  entered. 

"  I  couldn't  help  coming  over.  Brown,"  he  said,  "  I  must 

talk  to  some  one,  and  Blake  has  gone  off  raging.     I  don't 

know  what  he'll  do — I  never  was  so  bothered  or  savage  in 

my  life." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Tom ;  "  he  looked  very  bad  in 

your  rooms.     Can  I  do  anything  1 " 

"  No,  but  I  must  talk  to  some  one.  You  know — no  you 
don't,  by  the  way — but,  however,  Blake  got  me  out  of  a 
tremendous  scrape  in  my  first  term,  and  there's  nothing  that 
I  am  not  bound  to  do  for  him,  and  wouldn't  do  if  I  could. 
Yes,  by  George,  whatever  fellows  say  of  me,  they  shall  never 
say  I  didn't  stand  by  a  man  who  has  stood  by  me.  Well,  he 
owes  a  dirty  300^.  or  400Z.  or  something  of  the  sort — nothing 
worth  talking  of,  I  know — to  people  in  Oxford,  and  they've  been 
leading  him  a  dog's  life  this  year  and  more.  Now,  he's  just- 
going  up  for  liis  degree,  and  two  or  three  of  these  creditors — - 
the  most  rascally  of  course — are  sueing  him  in  the  Vice-Chan^ 
cellor's  Court,  thinking  now's  the  time  to  put  the  screw  on. 
He  will  be  ruined  if  they  are  not  stopped  somehow.  Just 
after  I  saw  you  to-day,  he  came  to  me  about  it.  You  never 
saw  a  fellow  in  such  a  state  ;  I  could  see  it  was  tearing  him 
to  pieces,  telling  it  to  me  even.  However,  I  soon  set  him 
at  ease  as  far  as  I  was  concerned  ;  but,  as  the  devil  will  have 
it,  I  can't  lend  him  the  money,  though  60^.  would  get  him 
over  the  examination,  and  then  he  can  make  terms.  My 
guardian  advanced  me  200^.  beyond  my  allowance  just  before 
Easter,_and  I  haven't  20/.  left,  and  the  bank  here  has  given 
me  notice  not  to  overdraw  any  more.  However,  I  thought  to 
settle  it  easily  enough;  so  I  told  him  to  meet  me  at  the 
Mitre  in  half-an-hour  for  dinner,  and  when  he  was  gone  I  sat 
down  and  wrote  two  notes— the  first  to  St.  Cloud.  That  fellow 
was  with  us  on  and  off  in  town,  and  one  night  he  and  I  went 
partners  at  roulette,  I  finding  ready-money  for  the  time,  gains 
and  losses  to  be  equally  shared  in  the  end.  I  left  the  table 
to  go  and  eat  some  supper,  and  he  lost  80/.,  and  paid  it  out 
of  my  money.  I  didn't  much  care,  and  he  cursed  the  luck, 
and  acknowledged  that  he  owed  me  40/.  at  the  time.     AYell, 


SUMMER  TERM.  105 

I  jusL  reminded  liim  of  this  40^.  and  said  I  should  he  glad  of 
it  (I  know  he  has  plenty  of  money  just  now),  hut  added,  that 
it  might  stand  if  he  would  join  me  and  Blake  in  borrowing 
60^.  ;  I  was  fool  enough  to  add  that  Blake  was  in  difficulties, 
and  I  was  most  anxious  to  help  him.  As  I  thought  that  St. 
Cloud  would  probably  pay  the  40Z.  but  do  no  more,  I  wrote 
also  to  Chanter — heaven  knows  why,  except  that  the  beast 
rolls  in  money,  and  has  fawned  on  me  till  I've  been  nearly 
sick  this  year  past — and  asked  him  to  lend  Blake  50^.  on  our 
joint  note  of  hand.  Poor  Blake  !  wlien  I  told  him  what  I 
had  done  at  the  Mitre,  I  think  I  might  as  well  have  stuck 
the  carving-knife  into  him.  ~We  had  a  wretched  two  hours  ; 
then  you  came  in,  and  I  got  my  two  answers — here  they 
are." 

Tom  took  the  proffered  notes,  and  read  : — 

"  Dear  Drtsdale, — Please  explain  the  allusion  in  yours 
to  some  mysterious  40^.  I  remember  perfectly  the  occurrence 
to  which  you  refer  in  another  part  of  your  note.  You  were 
tired  of  sitting  at  the  table,  and  went  off  to  supper,  leaving 
me  (not  by  my  own  desire)  to  play  for  you  with  your  money. 
I  did  so,  and  had  abominable  luck,  as  you  will  remember,  for 
I  handed  you  back  a  sadly  dwindled  heap  on  your  return  to 
the  table.  I  hope  you  are  in  no  row  about  that  night  ?  I 
shall  be  quite  ready  to  give  evidence  of  what  passed  if  it  will 
help  you  in  any  way;     I  am  always  yours  very  truly, 

A.  St,  Cloud. 

"P.S.  I  must  decline  the  little  joint  operation  for  Blake's 
benefit,  which  you  j^ropose." 

The  second  answer  ran  : — 

"  Dear  Drysdale, — I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  accommodate 
^[r.  Blake,  as  a  friend  of  yours,  but  you  see  his  acceptance 
is  mere  waste  paper,  and  you  cannot  give  security  until  you 
are  of  age,  so  if  you  were  to  die  the  money  would  be  lost. 
Mr.  Blake  has  always  carried  his  head  as  high  as  if  he  had 
5,000^.  a  year  to  spend  ;  perhaps  now  he  will  turn  less  haughty 
to  men  who  could  buy  him  up  easy  enough.  I  remain  yours 
sincerely, 

Jabez  Chanter." 

Tom  looked  up,  and  met  Drysdale's  eyes,  w  hich  hadmore 
of  purpose  in  them  than  he  had  ever  seen  before.  "  Fancy 
poor  Blake  reading  those  two  notes,"  he  said,  "  and  'twas  I 
brought  them  on  him.  However,  he  shall  have  the  money 
somehow  to-morrow,  if  I  pawn  my  watch.  I'll  be  even  with 
those  two  some  day."     The  two  remained  in  conference  for 


106  TOM   BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

some  time  longer ;  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  do  more  than 
relate  the  result. 

At  three  o'clock  the  next  day,  Blake,  Drysdalc,  and  Tom 
were  in  the  back-parlour  of  a  second-rate  inn,  in  the  Corn- 
market.  On  the  table  were  pens  and  ink,  some  cases  of 
Eau-de-Cologne  and  jewellery,  and  behind  it  a  fat  man  of  for- 
bidding aspect  who  spent  a  day  or  two  in  each  term  at  Oxford. 
He  held  in  his  thick  red  da^np  hand,  ornamented  as  to  the 
fore-finger  with  a  huge  ring,  a  piece  of  paper. 

"  Then  I  shall  draw  for  a  hundred-and-hve  1 " 

"J£  you  do,  we  won't  sign,"  said  Drysdale ;  "now,  be 
quick,  Ben"  (the  fat  man's  name  was  Benjamin),  "you 
infernal  shark,  we've  been  wrangling  long  enough  over  it, 
Draw  for  a  1001.  at  three  months,  or  we  are  oif." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Drysdale,  you  gents  will  take  part  in  goods. 
I  wish  to  do  all  I  can  for  gents  as  comes  well  introduced,  but 
money  is  very  scarce  just  now." 

"!N"ot  a  stuffed  bird,  bottle  of  Eau-de-Cologne,  ring,  or 
cigar,  will  we  have.  So  now,  no  more  nonsense,  put  down 
751.  on  the  table." 

The  money-lender,  after  another  equally  useless  attempt 
to  move  Drysdale,  who  was  the  only  one  of  the  party  who 
spoke,  produced  a  roll  of  notes,  and  coimted  out  75Z.,  think- 
ing to  himself  that  he  would  make  this  young  spark  sing  a 
different  tune  before  very  long.  He  then  filled  up  the  piece 
of  paper,  muttering  that  the  interest  was  nothing  considering 
the  risk,  and  he  hoped  they  would  help  him  to  something 
better  with  some  of  their  friends.  Drysdale  reminded  him, 
in  terms  not  too  carefully  chosen,  that  he  was  getting  cent, 
per  cent.  The  document  was  signed, — Drysdale  took  the 
notes,  and  they  went  out. 

"Well,  that's  well  over,"  said  Drysdale,  as  they  walked 
towards  High  Street.  "  I'm  proud  of  my  tactics,  I  must  say  ; 
one  never  does  so  well  for  oneself  as  for  any  one  else.  K  I 
had  been  on  my  own  hook  that  fellow  would  have  let  me  in 
for  20^.  worth  of  stuffed  birds  and  bad  jewellery.  Let's  see, 
what  do  you  want,  Blake  ?  " 

"  Sixty  will  do,"  said  Blake. 

"  You  had  better  take  G5/.  ;  there'll  be  some  law  costs  to 
pay,"  and  Drysdale  handed  him  the  notes. 

"Now,  Brown,  shall  we  divide  the  balance,— a  fiver 
a-piece  ? " 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Tom,  "  I  don't  want  it ;  and,  as  you 
two  are  to  hold  me  harmless,  you  must  do  what  you  like  with 
the  money."  So  Drysdale  pocketed  the  lOl.  after  which  they 
walked  in  silence  to  the  gates  of  St.  Ambrose.     The  most 


MUSGULAE  CHRISTIAOTTY.  107 

reckless  youngster  doesn't  begin  this  sort  of  thing  without 
reflections  which  are  apt  to  keep  him  silent.  At  the  gates 
Blake  wrung  both  their  hands.  "  I  don't  say  much,  but  I 
sha'n't  forget  it."  He  got  out  the  words  with  some  difficulty, 
and  went  oflF  to  his  rooms. 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

MUSCULAR   CHRISTIANITT. 

Within  the  next  week  or  two  several  important  events  had 
happened  to  one  and  another  of  our  St.  Ambrose  friends.  Tom 
had  introduced  Blake  to  Hardy,  after  some  demur  on  the  part 
of  the  latter.  Blake  was  his  senior  by  a  term ;  might  have 
called  on  him  any  time  these  three  years ;  why  should  he 
want  to  make  his  acquaintance  nowl  But  when  Tom  ex- 
plained to  him  that  it  would  be  a  kind  tiling  to  let  r>lake 
come  and  coach  up  history  with  him,  for  that  unless  he  took 
a  high  degree  in  the  coming  examination,  he  would  have  to 
leave  the  college,  and  probably  be  ruined  for  life.  Hardy  at 
once  consented. 

Tom  did  not  venture  to  inquire  for  a  day  or  two  how  the 
two  hit  it  off  together.  When  he  began  cautiously  to  approach 
the  subject,  he  was  glad  to  find  that  Hardy  liked  Blake. 
"  He  is  a  gentleman,  and  very  able,"  he  said  ;  "  it  is  curious 
to  see  how  quickly  he  is  overhauling  Grey,  and  yet  how  Grey 
takes  to  him.  He  has  never  looked  scared  at  him  (as  he  still 
does  at  you,  by  the  way)  since  the  first  night  they  met. 
Blake  has  the  talent  of  setting  people  at  their  ease  without 
saying  anything.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Grey  thinks  he  has 
sound  Church  notions.  It's  a  dangerous  talent,  and  may 
make  a  man  very  false  if  he  doesn't  take  care."  Tom  asked 
if  Blake  would  be  up  in  his  history  in  time.  Hardy  thought 
he  might  perhaps,  but  he  had  great  lee-way  to  make  up. 
If  capacity  for  taking  in  cram  would  do  it,  he  would  be 
all  right.  He  had  been  well  crammed  in  his  science,  and 
had  put  him  (Hardy)  up  to  many  dodges  which  might  be 
useful  in  the  schools,  and  which  you  couldn't  get  without  a 
private  tutor. 

Then  Tom's  first  wine  had  gone  off  most  successfully.  Jervis 
and  Miller  had  come  early  and  stayed  late,  and  said  all  that 
was  handsome  of  the  port,  so  that  he  was  already  a  social  hero 
with  the  boating  set.  Drysdale,  of  course,  had  been  there, 
rattling  away  to  everybody  in  his  reckless  fashion,  and  setting 
a  good  example  to  the  two  or  three  fast  men  whom  Tom  knew 


108  "^OM   BKOWN  AT   OXFOED. 

well  enough  to  ask,  and  who  consequently  behaved  iwetty 
well,  and  gave  themselves  no  airs,  though  as  they  went  away 
together  they  grumbled  slightly  that  Brown  didn't  give  claret. 
The  rest  of  the  men  had  shaken  together  well,  and  seemed 
to  enjoy  themselves.  The  only  drawback  to  Tom  had  been 
that  neither  Hardy  or  Grey  had  appeared.  They  excused 
themselves  afterwards  on  the  score  of  reading,  but  Tom  felt 
aggrieved  in  Hardy's  case  ;  he  knew  that  it  was  only  an  excuse. 

Then  the  training  had  begun  seriously.  Miller  had  come 
up  specially  for  the  first  fortnight,  to  get  them  well  in  hand, 
as  he  said.  After  they  were  once  fairly  started,  he  would 
have  to  go  down  till  just  before  the  races  ;  but  he  thought  he 
might  rely  on  the  Captain  to  keep  them  up  to  their  work  in 
the  interval. 

So  Miller,  the  coxswain,  took  to  drawing  the  bow  up  to  the 
ear  at  once.  At  the  very  beginning  of  the  term,  five  or  six 
weeks  before  the  races,  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  was  to  be  seen 
every  other  day  at  Abingdon ;  and  early  dinners,  limitation 
of  liquids  and  tobacco,  and  abstinence  from  late  supper 
parties,  pastry,  ice,  and  all  manner  of  trash,  likely  in  Miller's 
opinion  to  injxire  nerve  or  wind,  were  hanging  over  the  crew, 
and  already,  in  fact,  to  some  extent  enforced.  The  Captain 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  submitted  to  it  all  himself,  and  worked 
away  with  imperturbable  temper ;  merely  hinting  to  Miller, 
in  private,  that  he  was  going  too  fast,  and  that  it  would  be 
impossible  to  keep  it  up.  Diogenes  highly  approved ;  he 
would  have  become  the  willing  slave  of  any  tyranny  which 
should  insist  that  every  adult  male  subject  should  pull  twenty 
miles,  and  never  imbibe  more  than  a  quart  of  liquid,  in  the 
twenty-four  hours.  Tom  was  inclined  to  like  it,  as  it  helped 
him  to  realize  the  proud  fact  that  he  was  actually  in  the 
boat.  The  rest  of  the  crew  were  in  all  stages  of  mutiny, 
and  were  only  kept  from  breaking  out  by  their  fondness 
for  the  Captain  and  the  knowledge  that  Miller  was  going 
in  a  few  days.  As  it  was,  Blake  was  the  only  one  who 
openly  rebelled.  Once  or  twice  he  stayed  away.  Miller 
swore  and  grumbled,  the  Captain  shook  his  head,  and  the 
crew  in  general  rejoiced. 

It  is  to  one  of  these  occasions  to  which  we  must  now  turn. 
If  the  usual  casual  voyager  of  novels  had  been  standing  on 
Sand  ford  lock  at  about  four,  on  the  afternoon  of  April  — th, 
184  ,  he  might  have  beheld  the  St.  Ambrose  eight-oar  coming 
with  a  steady  swing  up  the  last  reach.  If  such  voyager  were 
in  the  least  conversant  with  the  glorious  mystery  of  rowing,  he 
would  have  felt  his  heart  warm  at  the  magnificent  sweep  and 
life  of  the  stroke,  and  would,  on  the  whole,  have  been  pleased 


MUSCULAR   CHRISTIANITY.  10b 

wifh  the  performance  of  the  crew  generally,  considered  as  a 
college  crew  in  the  early  stages  of  training.  They  came  "  hard 
all"  up  to  the  pool  below  the  lock,  the  coxswain  standing 
in  the  stern  with  a  tiller-rope  in  each  hand,  and  then  shipped 
oars ;  the  lock-gates  opened,  and  the  boat  entered,  and  in 
another  minute  or  two  was  moored  to  the  bank  above  the 
lock,  and  the  crew  strolled  into  the  little  inn  which  stands  by 
the  lock,  and,  after  stopping  in  the  bar  to  lay  hands  on  several 
pewters  full  of  porter,  passed  through  the  house  into  the 
quoit  and  skittle-grounds  behind.  These  were  already  well 
filled  with  men  of  other  crews,  playing  in  groups  or  looking 
on  at  the  players.  One  of  these  groups,  as  they  passed,  seized 
on  the  Captain,  and  Miller  stopped  with  him  ;  the  rest  of  the 
St.  Ambrose  men,  in  no  humour  for  skittles,  quoits,  or  any 
relaxation  except  rest  and  grumbling,  took  possession  of  the 
first  table  and  seats  which  offered,  and  came  to  anchor. 

Then  followed  a  moment  of  intense  enjoyment,  of  a  sort 
only  appreciable  by  those  who  have  had  a  twelve  mUes' 
training  pull  with  a  coxswain  as  sharp  as  a  needle,  and  in  an 
awful  temper. 

"  Ah,"  said  Drysdale,  taking  the  peAvter  down  from  his 
lips,  with  a  sigh,  and  handing  it  to  Tom,  who  sat  next  him, 
"  by  Jove,  I  feel  better." 

"  It's  almost  worth  while  pulling  '  hard  all'  from  Abingdon 
to  get  such  a  thirst,"  said  another  of  the  crew. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  though,"  said  Drysdale,  "  to-day's  the 
last  day  you'll  catch  me  in  this  blessed  boat." 

Tom  had  just  finished  his  draught,  but  did  not  reply ;  it 
was  by  no  means  the  first  time  that  Drysdale  had  announced 
this  resolve.     The  rest  were  silent  also. 

"  It's  bad  enough  to  have  to  pull  your  heart  out,  without 
getting  abused  all  the  way  into  the  bargain.  There  MiUer 
stands  in  the  stern — and  a  devilish  easy  thing  it  is  to  stand 
there  and  walk  into  us — I  can  see  him  chuckle  as  he  comes 
to  you  and  me,  Brown — 'Now,  2,  well  forward;'  '3,  don't 
jerk;'  'Now,  2,  throw  your  weight  on  the  oar;  come,  now, 
you  can  get  another  pound  on.'  I  hang  on  lake  grim  Death, — 
then  its  '  Time,  2  ;  now,  3 — '  " 

"Well,  it's  a  great  compliment,"  broke  in  Tom,  with  a 
laugh  :   "he  thinks  he  can  make  something  of  us." 

"  He'U  make  nothing  of  us  first,  I  think,"  said  Drysdale. 
"  I've  lost  eight  pounds  in  a  fortnight."  The  Captain  ought 
to  put  me  in  every  place  in  the  boat,  in  turn,  to  make  it  water- 
tight. I've  larded  the  bottom  boards  under  my  seat  so  that 
not  a  drop  of  water  wiU  ever  come  through  again." 

"  A  very  good  thing  for  you,  old  feUow,"  said  Diogenes ; 


110  TOM  BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

'<  you  look  ten  times  better  than  you  did  at  the  beginning  of 

term."  ,^  ^ 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  a  good  thing,  you  old  fluter. 
I'm  obliged  to  sit  on  my  hip-bones — I  can't  go  to  a  lecture — 
all  the  tutors  think  I'm  poking  fun  at  them,  and  put  me 
on  directly.  I  haven't  been  able  to  go  to  lecture  these  ten 
days." 

"  So  fond  of  lecture  as  he  is,  too,  poor  feUow,"  put  in 

Tom  .  „      ., 

"But  they've  discommonsed  me  for  staying  away,  said 
Drysdale  ;  "not  that  I  care  much  for  that,  though." 

"Well,  Miller  goes  down  to-morrow  morning — I  heard 
him  say  so,"  said  another. 

"  Then  we'll  memorialize  the  Captain  and  get  out  of  these 
Abingdon  pulls.  Life  isn't  worth  having  at  this  rate." 
"  No  other  boat  has  been  below  Sandford  yet." 
And  so  they  sat  on  and  plotted,  and  soon  most  of  the  other 
crews  started.  And  then  they  took  their  turn  at  skittles, 
and  almost  forgot  their  grievances,  which  must  be  explained 
to  thosG  who  don't  know  the  river  at  Oxford. 

The  river  runs  along  the  south  of  the  city,  getting  into  the 

university  quarter  after  it  passes  under  the  bridge  connecting 

Berks  and  Oxfordsliii'e,  over  which  is  the  road  to  Abingdon. 

Just  below  this  bridge  are  the  boat-builders'  establishments 

on  both  sides  of  the  river,   and  then   c-n   the  Oxfordshire 

side  is  Christchiirch  meadow,  opposite  which  is  moored  the 

university  barge.     Here  is  the  goal  of  all  university  races ; 

and  the  racecourse  stretches  away  down  the  river  for  a  mile 

and  a  half,  and  a  little  below  the  starting-place  of  the  races 

is  Iffley  Lock.     The  next  lock  below  Iffley  is  the  Sandford 

Lock   (where  we   left  our  boat's   crew  playing  at  skittles), 

which   is   about   a   mile   and   a   half  below  Iffley.     Below 

Sandford  there  is  no  lock  till  you  get  to  Abingdon,  a  distance 

of  six  mUes  and  more  by  the  river.     Now,  inasmuch  as  the 

longest  distance  to  be  rowed  in  the  races  is  only  the  upper 

mile  and  a  half  from  Iffley  to  the  university  barge,  of  course 

aU  the  crews  think  themselves  very  hardly  treated  if  they  are 

taken  farther  than  to  Sandford.     Pulling  "  hard  all"  from 

Sandford  to  Iffley,  and  then  again  from  Iffley  over  the  regular 

com'se,  ought  to  be  enough  in  all  conscience.     So  chorus  the 

crews  ;  and  most  captains  and  coxswains  give  in.     But  here 

and  there  some  enemy  of  his  kind — some  uncomfortable, 

worriting,  energizing  mortal,   like  Miller — gets  command  of 

a  boat,  and  then  the  unfortunate  crew  are  dragged,  bemoaning 

their  fate,    down   below  Sandford,  where  no   friendly  lock 

intervenes  to  break  the  long,  steady  swing  of  the  training  pull 


MUSCULAR   CHRISTIANITY.  Ill 

every  two  miles,  and  the  result  fur  the  time  is  blisters  and 
mutiny.  I  am  bound  to  add  that  it  generally  tells,  and  that 
the  crew  which  has  been  undergoing  that  peine  forte  et  dure 
is  very  apt  to  get  the  change  out  of  it  on  the  nights  of  hard 
races. 

So  the  St.  Ambrose  crew  played  out  their  skittles,  and 
settled  to  appeal  to  the  Captain  in  a  body  the  next  day,  after 
Miller's  departure  ;  and  then,  being  summoned  to  the  boat, 
they  took  to  the  water  again,  and  paddled  steadily  up  home, 
arriving  just  in  time  for  hall  for  those  who  hked  to  hurry. 
Drysdale  never  liked  hurrying  himself ;  besides,  he  could  not 
dine  in  hall,  as  he  was  discommonsed  for  persistent  absence 
from  lectures,  and  neglect  to  go  to  the  Dean  when  sent  for  to 
explain  his  absence. 

"  I  say,  Bro\vn,  hang  hall,"  he  said  to  Tom,  who  was 
throwing  on  his  things  ;  "  come  and  dine  with  me  at  the 
Mitre.     Til  give  you  a  bottle  of  hock  ;  it's  very  good  there." 

"  Hock's  about  the  worst  thing  you  can  drink  in  training," 
said  Miller.     "  Isn't  it  Jervis  ? " 

''  It's  no  good,  certainly,"  said  the  Captain,  as  he  put  on  his 
cap  and  gown  ;  "  come  along.  Miller." 

"  There,  you  hear  1"  said  Miller.  "You  can  drink  a  glass 
of  sound  sherry,  if  you  want  wine ; "  and  he  followed  the 
Captain. 

Drysdale  performed  a  defiant  pantomime  after  the  retiring 
coxswain,  and  then  easily  carried  his  point  with  Tom,  except 
as  to  the  hock.  So  they  walked  up  to  the  Mitre  together, 
where  Drysdale  ordered  dinner  and  a  bottle  of  hock  in  the 
coffee-room. 

"Don't  order  hock,  Drysdale  ;  I  shan't  drink  any." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  it  all  to  my  own  cheek.  If  you  begin 
making  a  slave  of  yourself  to  that  Miller,  he'll  very  soon  cut 
you  down  to  a  glass  of  water  a  day,  with  a  pinch  of  rhubarb 
in  it,  and  make  you  drinli  that  standing  on  your  head." 

"  Gammon ;  but  I  don't  think  it's  fair  on  the  rest  of  the 
crew  not  to  train  as  well  as  one  can." 

"  Tou  don't  suppose  drinking  a  pint  of  hock  to-night  will 
make  you  pull  any  the  worse  this  day  six  weeks,  when  the 
races  begin,  do  you  V 

"No;  but—" 

"  Hullo  !  look  here,"  said  Drysdale,  who  was  inspecting 
a  printed  bill  pinned  up  on  the  wall  of  the  coffee-room ; 
"  Wombwell's  menagerie  is  in  the  town,  somewhere  down  by 
Worcester.     What  fun  !     We'll  go  there  after  dinner." 

The  food  arrived,  with  Drysdale's  hock,  which  he  seemed 
to  enjoy  all  the  more  from  the  assurance  which  every  glass 


112  TOM   BEOWN  AT   OXFORD. 

gave  him  that  he  was  defying  the  coxswain,  and  doing  just 
the  thing  he  would  most  dislike.  So  he  drank  away,  and 
facetiously  speculated  how  he  could  be  such  an  idiot  as  to  go 
on  pulling.  Every  day  of  his  life  he  made  good  resolutions 
in  the  reach  above  the  Gut  that  it  should  be  his  last  per- 
formance, and  always  broke  them  next  day.  He  supposed 
the  habit  he  had  of  breaking  all  good  resolutions  was  the  way 
to  account  for  it. 

After  dinner  they  set  off  to  find  the  wild-beast  show  ;  and, 
as  they  will  be  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  reaching  it,  for 
the  pitch  is  in  a  part  of  the  suburbs  little  known  to  gowns- 
men, the  opportunity  may  be  seized  of  making  a  few  remarks 
to  the  patient  reader,  which  impatient  readers  are  begged  to 
skip. 

Our  hero  on  his  first  appearance  in  public  some  years 
since,  was  without  his  own  consent  at  once  patted  on  the 
back  by  the  good-natured  critics,  and  enrolled  for  better  or 
worse  in  the  brotherhood  of  muscular  Christians,  who  at  that 
time  were  begmning  to  be  recognised  as  an  actual  and  lusty 
portion  of  general  British  life.  As  his  biographer,  I  am  not 
about  to  take  exceptions  to  his  enrolment ;  for,  after  con- 
sidering the  persons  up  and  down  her  Majesty's  dominions  to 
whom  the  new  nick-name  has  been  applied,  the  principles 
which  they  are  supposed  to  hold,  and  the  sort  of  lives  they 
are  supposed  to  lead,  I  cannot  see  where  he  could  in  these 
times  have  fallen  upon  a  nobler  brotherhood.  I  am  speaking 
of  course  under  correction,  and  with  only  a  slight  acquaiu- 
tance  with  the  faith  of  muscular  Christianity,  gathered  almost 
entu'ely  from  the  witty  expositions  and  comments  of  persons 
of  a  somewhat  dyspeptic  habit,  who  are  not  amongst  the 
faithful  themselves.  Indeed,  I  am  not  aware  that  any 
authorized  articles  of  belief  have  been  sanctioned  or  published 
by  the  sect,  Church,  or  whatever  they  may  be.  Moreover, 
at  the  age  at  which  our  hero  has  arrived,  and  having  regard 
to  his  character,  I  should  say  that  he  has  in  all  lilcelihood 
thought  very  little  on  the  subject  of  belief,  and  woidd  scarcely 
be  able  to  give  any  formal  account  of  his  own,  beyond  that 
contained  in  the  Church  Catechism,  which  I  for  one  think 
may  very  well  satisfy  him  lor  the  present.  Nevertheless, 
liad  he  been  suddenly  caught  at  the  gate  of  St.  Ambrose's 
College,  by  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  do  the  classifying  for 
the  British  public,  and  accosted  with,  "  Sir,  you  belong  to  a 
\)ody  whose  creed  is  to  fear  God,  and  walk  1000  mdes  in  1000 
lours;"  I  beHeve  he  would  have  replied,  "Do  I,  sir?  I'm 
/ery  glad  to  hear  it.  They  must  be  a  very  good  set  of  fellowa 
How  many  weeks'  training,  do  they  allow  1" 


MUSCTJLAE    CURISTIANITY.  113 

But  in  tlie  course  of  my  inquiries  on  the  subject  of  muscular 
Christians,  their  works  and  ways,  a  fact  has  forced  itself  on 
my  attention,  which,  for  the  sake  of  ingenious  youth,  like  my 
hero,  ought  not  to  be  passed  over.  I  find,  then,  that,  side  by 
side  with  these  muscular  Christians,  and  apparently  claiming 
some  sort  of  connexion  with  them  (the  same  concern,  as  the 
pirates  of  trade-marks  say),  have  risen  up  another  set  of 
persons,  against  "svhom  I  desire  to  caution  my  readers  and  my 
hero,  and  to  warn  the  latter  that  I  do  not  mean  on  any 
pretence  whatever  to  allow  him  to  connect  himself  with  them, 
however  much  he  may  be  taken  with  their  off-hand,  "  hail- 
brother  well-met"  manner  and  dress,  which  may  easily  lead 
careless  observers  to  take  the  counterfeit  for  the  true  article. 
I  must  call  the  persons  in  question  "  musclemen,"  as  dis- 
tinguished from  muscular  Christians ;  the  only  point  in 
common  between  the  two  being,  that  both  hold  it  to  be  a 
good  thing  to  have  strong  and  well-exercised  bodies,  ready  to 
be  put  at  the  shortest  notice  to  any  work  of  which  bodies  are 
capable,  and  to  do  it  well.  Here  all  likeness  ends  ;  for  the 
"  muscleman "  seems  to  have  no  belief  whatever  as  to  the 
purposes  for  which  his  body  has  been  given  him,  except  some 
hazy  idea  that  it  is  to  go  up  and  down  the  world  with  him, 
belabouring  men  and  captivating  women  for  his  benefit  or 
pleasure,  at  once  the  servant  and  fomenter  of  those  fierce  and 
brutal  passions  which  he  seems  to  think  it  a  necessity,  and 
rather  a  fine  thing  than  otherwise,  to  indulge  and  obey. 
Whereas,  so  far  as  I  know,  the  least  of  the  muscular  Cliristians 
has  hold  of  the  old  chivalrous  and  Christian  belief,  that  a 
man's  body  is  given  him  to  be  trained  and  brought  into  sub- 
jection, and  then  used  for  the  protection  of  the  weak,  the 
advancement  of  all  righteous  causes,  and  the  subduing  of  the 
earth  which  God  has  given  to  the  children  of  men.  He  does 
not  hold  that  mere  strength  or  activity  are  in  themselves 
worthy  of  any  respect  or  worship,  or  that  one  man  is  a  bit 
better  than  another  because  he  can  knock  him  down,  or  carry 
a  bigger  sack  of  potatoes  than  he.  For  mere  power,  whether 
of  body  or  intellect,  he  has  (I  hope  and  believe)  no  reverence 
whatever,  though,  cceteris  paribus,  he  would  probably  himself, 
as  a  matter  of  taste,  prefer  the  man  who  can  lift  a  hundred- 
weight round  his  head  with  his  little  finger  to  the  man  who 
can  construct  a  string  of  perfect  Sorites,  or  expound  the 
doctrine  of  "  contradictory  inconceivables." 

The  above  remarks  occur  as  our  hero  is  marching  inno- 
cently down  towards  his  first  "  town  and  gown  "  row,  and  1 
should  scarcely  like  to  see  him  in  the  middle  of  it,  without 
protesting  that  it  is  a  mistake.     I  know  that  he,  and  other 

I 


114  TOM   BROWN   At   OXFORD. 

yoiuigsters  of  his  kidney,  will  have  fits  of  fighting,  or  de 
siiiuT  to  fight  with  their  poorer  brethren,  just  as  children 
have  the  measles.  But  the  shorter  the  fit  the  better  foi 
the  patient,  for  like  the  measles  it  is  a  great  mistake,  and  a 
most  unsatisfactory  complaint.  If  they  can  escape  it  alto- 
gether so  much  the  better.  But  instead  of  treating  the  fit  as 
a  disease,  "  musclemen  "  professors  are  wont  to  represent  it 
as  a  state  of  health,  and  tv.  let  their  disciples  run  about  in 
middle  age  with  the  measles  on  them  as  strong  as  ever.  Now 
although  our  hero  had  the  measles  on  him  at  this  particular 
time,  and  the  passage  of  arms  which  I  am  about  shortly  to 
describe  led  to  residts  of  some  importance  in  his  history,  and 
cannot  therefore  be  passed  over,  yet  I  msh  at  the  same  time 
to  disclaim,  both  in  my  sponsorial  and  individual  character, 
all  sympathy  with  town  and  gown  rows,  and  with  all  other 
class  rows  and  quarrels  of  every  sort  and  kind,  whether  waged 
with  sword,  pen,  tongue,  fist,  or  otherwise.  Also  to  say  that 
in  all  such  rows,  so  far  as  I  have  seen  or  read,  from  the  time 
when  the  Eoman  plebs  marched  out  to  Mons  Sacer,  down  to 
1848,  when  the  English  chartists  met  on  Kennington  Com- 
mon, the  upper  classes  are  most  to  blame.  It  may  be  that 
they  are  not  the  aggi-essors  on  any  given  occasion  :  very  pos- 
sibly they  may  carry  on  the  actual  fighting  with  more  faii'ness 
(though  this  is  by  no  means  true  as  a  rule) ;  nevertheless  the 
state  of  feeling  which  makes  such  things  possible,  especially 
in  England,  where  men  in  general  are  only  too  ready  to  be 
led  and  taught  by  their  superiors  in  rank,  may  be  fairly  laid 
at  their  door.  Even  in  the  case  of  strikes,  which  just  now  will 
of  course  be  at  once  thrown  in  my  teeth,  I  say  fearlessly.  Let 
any  man  take  the  trouble  to  study  the  question  honestly,  and 
he  will  come  to  the  conviction  that  all  combinations  -of  the 
men  for  the  purpose  of  influencing  the  labour  market,  whether 
in  the  much  and  unjustly  abused  Trades'  Societies,  or  in  other 
forms,  have  been  defensive  organizations,  and  that  the  masters 
might,  as  a  body,  over  and  over  again  have  taken  the  sting 
out  of  them  if  they  would  have  acted  fairly,  as  many  indi- 
riduals  amongst  them  have  done.  Whether  it  may  not  be 
too  late  now,  is  a  tremendous  question  for  England,  but  one 
which  time  only  can  decide. 

When  Drysdale  and  Tom  at  last  found  the  caravans,  it  was 
just  getting  dark.  Something  of  a  crowd  had  collected  out- 
siile,  and  there  was  some  hissing  as  they  ascended  the  short 
flight  of  steps  which  led  to  the  platform  in  front  of  the 
show  ;  but  they  took  no  notice  of  it,  paid  their  money,  and 
entered. 

Inside  they  found  an  exciting  scene.     The  place  was  pre!  ty 


MUSCULAE   CHRISTIANITY.  115 

well  lighted,  and  tlie  birds  and  beasts  were  all  alive  in  their 
several  deus  and  cages,  wallcing  up  and  down,  and  each  utter- 
ing remonstrances  after  its  own  manner,  the  shrUl  notes  of 
birds  mingling  with  the  moan  of  the  beasts  of  prey  and 
chattering  of  the  monkeys.  Feeding  time  had  been  put  off 
till  night  to  suit  the  undergraduates,  and  the  undergraduates 
were  proving  their  appreciation  of  the  attention  by  playing 
off  all  manner  of  practical  jokes  on  birds  and  beasts,  their 
keepers,  and  such  of  the  public  as  had  been  rash  enough  to 
venture  in.  At  the  farther  end  was  the  keeper,  who  did  the 
showman,  vainly  endeavouring  to  go  through  his  usual  jogtrot 
descrii)tion.  His  monotone  was  drowned,  every  minute  by 
the  chorus  of  voices,  each  shouting  out  some  new  fact  in 
natural  history  touching  the  biped  or  quadxuped  whom  the 
keeper  was  attempting  to  describe.  At  that  day  a  great  deal 
of  this  sort  of  chaff  was  current,  so  that  the  most  dunder- 
headed  boy  had  plenty  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  A  small 
and  indignant  knot  of  townspeople,  headed  by  a  stout  and 
severe  middle-aged  woman,  vrith  two  big  boys,  her  sons,  fol- 
lowed the  keeper,  endeavouring  by  caustic  remarks  and 
withering  glances  to  stop  the  flood  of  chaff,  and  restore 
the  legitimate  authority  and  the  reign  of  keej)er  and  natural 
history. 

At  another  point  was  a  long  Irishman  in  cap  and  gown, 
who  had  clearly  had  as  much  wine  as  he  could  carry,  close  to 
the  bai-s  of  the  panther's  den,  through  which  he  was  earnestly 
endeavouring,  with  the  help  of  a  crooked  stick,  to  draw  the 
tail  of  whichever  of  the  beasts  stopped  for  a  moment  in  its 
uneasy  walk.  On  the  other  side  were  a  set  of  men  bent  on 
bxu'ning  the  wretched  monkeys'  fingers  with  the  lighted  ends 
of  their  cigars,  in  which  they  seemed  successful  enough,  to 
ju.dge  by  the  angry  chatterings  and  slu-iekings  of  their  victims. 

The  two  iiew  comers  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  platform 
inside  the  curtain  ;  and  then  Drysdale,  rubbing  his  hands, 
and  in  high  glee  at  the  sight  of  so  much  misrule  in  so  small 
a  place,  led  the  way  dowij  on  to  the  floor  deep  in  sawdust, 
exclaiming,  "  AYell,  this  is  a  lark  !  We're  just  in  for  all  the 
fun  of  the  fair." 

Tom  followed  his  friend,  who  made  straight  for  the  show- 
man, and  planted  himself  at  his  side,  just  as  that  worthy, 
pointuig  with  his  pole,  was  proceeding — 

"  This  is  the  jackal,  from — " 

"  The  Caribee  Hielands,  of  which  I'm  a  native  mysel'," 
shouted  a  gownsman. 

"  Tliis  is  the  jackal,  or  lion's  provider,"  began  again  the 
much-enduring  keeper. 


tl6  TOM  BEOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

"Who  always  goes  before  the  lion  to  purwide  his  pur- 
wisions,  purwiding  there's  anything  to  purwide,"  put  in 
Drysdale. 

"  Hem — really  I  do  think  it's  scandalous  not  to  let  the 
keeper  tell  about  the  beasteses,"  said  the  unfortunate  matron, 
with  a  half  turn  towards  the  persecutors,  and  grasping  her 
bag. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  said  Drysdale,  in  his  softest  voice,  "  I 
assure  you  he  knows  nothiug  about  the  beasteses.  We  are 
Doctor  Buckland's  favourite  pupils,  are  also  well  knoAvn  to 
the  great  Panjandrum,  and  have  eaten  more  beasteses  than  the 
keeper  has  ever  seen." 

"  I  don't  know  who  you  are,  young  man,  but  you  don't 
know  how  to  behave  yoiu'selves,"  rejoined  the  outraged 
female ;  and  the  keeper,  giving  up  the  jackal  as  a  bad  job, 
pointing  with  his  pole,  proceeded — 

"  The  little  hanimal  in  the  upper  cage  is  the  hopossum,  of 
North  America — " 

"  The  misguided  offspring  of  the  racoon  and  the  gum-tree," 
put  in  one  of  his  tormentors. 

Here  a  frightful  roaring  and  strugglmg  at  a  little  distance, 
muigled  with  shouts  of  laughter,  and  "  Hold  on,  Pat !"  "  Go 
it,  panther  ! "  interrupted  the  lectui'e,  and  caused  a  rush  to 
the  other  side,  where  the  long  Irishman,  Donovan,  by  name, 
with  one  foot  against  the  bars,  was  holding  on  to  the  tail  of 
one  of  the  panthers,  which  he  had  at  length  managed  to 
catch  hold  of.  The  next  moment  he  was  flat  on  his  back  in 
the  sawdust,  and  his  victim  was  bounding  wildly  about  the 
cage.  The  keeper  hurried  away  to  look  after  the  outraged 
panther  ;  and  Drysdale,  at  once  installing  himself  as  show- 
man, began  at  the  next  cage — 

"  This  is  the  wild  man  of  the  woods,  or  whangee-tangee, 
the  most  untameable — good  heavens,  ma'am,  take  care  !  "  and 
he  seized  hold  of  the  unfortunate  woman  and  pulled  her 
away  from  the  bars. 

"  Oh,  goodness  !  "  she  screamed,  "  it's  got  my  tippet ;  oh, 
Bill,  Peter,  catch  hold  !  "  Bill  and  Peter  proved  unequal  to 
the  occasion,  but  a  go-\ynsman  seized  the  vanishing  tippet, 
and  after  a  moment's  struggle  with  the  great  ape,  restored  a 
meagre  half  to  the  proper  owner,  while  Jacko  sat  griiuiing  over 
the  other  half,  picking  it  to  pieces.  The  poor  woman  had 
now  had  enough  of  it,  and  she  hurried  off  with  her  two  boys, 
followed  by  the  few  townspeoj^le  who  were  still  in  the  show, 
to  lay  her  case  directly  before  the  mayor,  as  she  informed 
the  delinquents  from  the  platform  before  disappearing.  Her 
wrongs  were  likely  to  be  more  speedily  avenged,  to  judge  by 


MUSCULAE  CHRISTIANITY.  117 

the  angry  muriniirs  which,  arose    outside  immediately  after 
her  exit. 

But  still  the  high  jinks  went  on,  Donovan  leading  all  mis- 
chief, until  the  master  of  the  menagerie  appeared  inside,  and 
remonstrated  with  the  men.  "  He  must  send  for  the  police," 
he  said,  "  if  they  would  not  leave  the  heasts  alone.  He  had 
put  off  the  feeding  in  order  to  suit  them  ;  would  they  let  his 
keepers  feed  the  beasts  quietly  1  "  The  threat  of  the  police 
was  received  with  shouts  of  defiance  by  some  of  the  men, 
though  the  greater  part  seemed  of  the  opinion  that  matters 
were  getting  serious. 

The  proposal  for  feeding,  however,  was  welcomed  by  all, 
and  comparative  quiet  ensued  for  some  ten  minutes,  while  the 
baskets  of  joints,  bread,  stale  fish,  and  potatoes  were  brought 
in,  and  the  contents  distributed  to  the  famishing  occupants  of 
the  cages.  In  the  interval  of  peace  the  showman-keeper,  on 
a  hint  from  his  master,  again  began  his  round.  But  the  spirit 
of  mischief  was  abroad,  and  it  only  needed  this  to  make  it 
break  out  again.  In  another  two  minutes  the  beasts,  from 
the  lion  to  the  smallest  monkey,  were  struggling  for  their 
suppers  with  one  or  more  undergraduates  ;  the  elephant  had 
torn  the  gown  off  Donovan's  back,  having  only  just  missed 
his  arm  ;  the  manager  in  a  confusion  worthy  of  the  tower 
of  Babel,  sent  off  a  keeper  for  the  city  police,  and  tui-ned 
the  gas  out. 

The  audience,  after  the  first  moment  of  surprise  and  indig- 
nation, groped  their  way  towards  the  steps  and  mounted  the 
platform,  where  they  held  a  council  of  war.  Should  they 
stay  where  they  were,  or  make  a  sally  at  once,  break  through 
the  crowd  and  get  back  to  their  colleges.  It  was  curious  to 
see  how  in  that  short  minute  individual  character  came  out, 
and  the  coward,  the  cautious  man,  the  resolute,  prompt 
Englishman,  each  was  there,  and  more  than  one  species 
of  each. 

Donovan  was  one  of  the  last  up  the  steps,  and  as  he 
stumbled  up  caught  something  of  the  question  before  the 
house.  He  shouted  loudly  at  once  for  descending,  and  ofier- 
ing  battle.  "  But,  boys,"  he  added,  "  first  wait  till  I  adthress 
the  meeting,"  and  he  made  for  the  opening  in  the  canvas 
through  which  the  outside  platform  was  reached.  Stump 
oratory  and  a  free  fight  were  just  the  two  temptations  which 
Donovan  was  wholly  unable  to  resist ;  and  it  was  with  a  face 
radiant  with  de\'il-may-care  delight  that  he  burst  thi-ough  the 
opening,  followed  by  all  the  rest  (who  felt  that  the  matter 
was  out  of  their  hands,  and  must  go  its  own  way  after  the 
Irishman),  and  rolling  to  the  front  of  the  outside  platforaij 


118  TOM   BEOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

rested  one  hand  on  tlie  rail,  and  waved  the  other  gracefully 
towards  the  crowd.  This  was  the  signal  for  a  hurst  of  defiant 
shouts  and  hissing.  Donovan  stood  hlandly  waving  his 
hand  for  silence.  Drysdale,  running  his  eye  over  the  nioh, 
turned  to  the  rest  and  said,  "There's  nothing  to  stop  us, 
not  twenty  grown  men  in  the  whole  lot."  Then  one  of  the 
men  Ughting  upon  the  drumsticks,  which  the  usual  man  in 
corduroys  had  hidden  aw&y,  hegan  heating  the  big  drum 
furiously.  One  of  the  unaccountable  whims  wliich  influence 
cro\3ils  seized  on  the  mob,  and  there  was  almost  perfect 
silence.  This  seemed  to  take  Donovan  by  surprise;  the 
open  air  was  having  the  common  effect  on  him  ;  he  was 
getting  unsteady  on  his  legs,  and  his  brains  were  wan- 
dering.    "  IS'ow's  your  time,  Donovan,  my  boy — begin." 

"  Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure,  what'll  I  say  ]  let's  see,"  said  Donovan, 
putting  his  head  on  one  side — 

"  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,"  suggested  some  wag. 
"  To  be  sure,"  cried  Donovan  ;  ''  Friends,  Romans,  country 
men,  lend  me  your  ears." 

"  Bravo  Pat,  well  begun  ;  pull  their  ears  well  when  you've 
got  'em." 

"  Bad  luck  to  it !  where  was  1 1  you  divels — I  mean  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  Oxford  city  as  I  was  saying,  the  poets — " 

Then  the  storm  of  shouting  and  hissing  arose  again,  and 
Donovan,  after  an  ineffectual  attempt  or  two  to  go  on,  leaned 
forward,  and  shook  his  fiat  generally  at  the  mob.  Luckily 
for  him,  there  were  no  stones  about ;  but  one  of  the  crowd, 
catching  the  first  missile  at  hand,  which  happened  to  be  a 
cabbage-stalk,  sent  it  mth  true  aim  at  the  enraged  orator.  He 
jerked  his  head  on  one  side  to  avoid  it ;  the  motion  unsteadied 
his  cap  ;  he  threw  up  his  hand,  which,  instead  of  catching 
the  falling  cap,  as  it  was  meant  to  do,  sent  it  spinning  among 
the  crowd  below.  The  owner,  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
clapped  both  hands  on  the  bar  before  him  and  followed  his 
property,  vaulting  over  on  to  the  heads  of  those  nearest  the 
platform,  amougst  whom  he  fell,  scattering  them  right  and 
left. 

"  Come  on,  gown,  or  he'll  be  murdered,"  sang  out  one  of 
Donovan's  friends.  Tom  was  one  of  the  first  down  the  steps  ; 
they  rushed  to  the  spot  in  another  moment,  and  the  Irishman 
rose,  plastered  with  dirt,  but  otherwise  none  the  worse  for  his 
feat ;  his  cJip,  covered  with  mud,  was  proudly  stuck  on,  hind 
part  before.  He  was  of  course  thirsting  for  battle,  but  not 
quite  so  much  master  of  his  strength  as  usual ;  so  his  two 
friends,  who  were  luckily  strong  and  big  men,  seized  him,  one 
to  each  arm. 


MUSCULAK   CHRISTIANITY.  119 

"Come  along,  keep  together,"  was  the  word  ;  "there's  no 
time  to  lose.     Push  for  the  corn-market." 

The  cry  of  "  Town  !  town  ! "  now  rose  on  all  sides.  The 
gownsmen  in  a  compact  body,  with  Donovan  in  the  middle, 
pushed  rapidly  across  the  open  space  in  which  the  caravans 
were  set  up  and  gained  the  street.  Here  tliey  were  compara- 
tively safe  :  they  were  followed  close,  but  could  not  be  sur- 
rounded by  the  mob.  And  now  again  a  bystander  might 
have  amused  himself  by  noting  the  men's  characters.  Three 
or  four  pushed  rapidly  on,  and  were  out  of  sight  ahead  in  no 
time.  The  greater  part,  without  showing  any  actual  signs  of 
fear,  kept  steadily  on,  at  a  good  pace.  Close  behind  these, 
Donovan  struggled  violently  with  his  two  conductors,  and 
shouted  defiance  to  the  town  ;  while  a  small  and  silent  rear- 
guard, amongst  whom  were  Tom  and  Drysdale,  walked  slowly 
and,  to  all  appearance,  carelessly  behind,  within  a  few  yards 
of  the  crowd  of  shouting  boys  who  headed  the  advancing 
town.  Tom  himself  felt  his  heart  beating  quick,  and  I  don't 
think  had  any  particular  desire  for  the  fighting  to  begin,  with 
such  long  odds  on  the  to^vn  side  ;  but  he  was  resoh'^ed  to  be 
iu  it  as  soon  as  any  one  if  there  was  to  be  any.  Thus  they 
marched  through  one  or  two  streets  without  anything  more 
serious  than  an  occasional  stone  passuig  their  ears.  Another 
turn  would  have  brought  them  into  the  open  parts  of  the 
to-vvn,  within  hearing  of  the  colleges,  when  suddenly  Donovan 
broke  loose  from  his  supporters,  and  rushing  with  a  shout  on 
the  advanced  guard  of  the  town,  drove  them  back  in  confusion 
for  some  yards.  The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  back  him  up  ; 
so  the  rear-guard,  shouting  "  Gown  !  gown  !  "  charged  after 
him.  The  eifect  of  the  onset  was  Uke  that  of  Blount  at 
Flodden,  when  he  saw  Marmion's  banner  go  down, — a  wide 
space  was  cleared  for  a  moment,  the  town  driven  back  on  to 
the  pavements,  and  up  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  the 
rescued  Donovan  caught,  set  on  his  legs,  and  dragged  away 
again  some  paces  towards  college.  But  the  charging  body 
was  too  few  in  number  to  improve  the  first  success,  or  even  to 
insure  its  own  retreat.  "  Darkly  closed  the  war  around." 
The  town  lapped  on  them  from  the  pavements,  and  poured  on 
them  down  the  middle  of  the  street,  before  ihej  had  time  to 
rally  and  stand  together  again.  What  happened  to  the  rest — 
who  was  doAvn,  who  up,  who  fought,  who  fled, — Tom  had  no 
time  to  inquire  ;  for  he  found  himself  suddenly  the  centre  of 
a  yelluig  circle  of  enemies.  So  he  set  his  teeth  and  buckled 
to  his  work  ;  and  the  thought  of  splendid  single  combat,  and 
glory  such  as  he  had  read  of  in  college  stories,  and  tradition 
handing  him  down  as  the  hero  of  that  great  niglit,  flashed 


120  TOM  BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

into  his  head  as  he  cast  his  eye  roimd  for  foeaen  worthy  of 
his  steel.  None  such  appeared ;  so,  selecting  the  one  most 
of  his  own  size,  he  squared  and  advanced  on  him.  But  the 
challenged  one  declined  the  comhat,  and  kept  retreating  ; 
while  from  behind,  and  the  sides,  one  after  another  of  the 
"  town  "  rushing  out  dealt  Tom  a  blow  and  vanished  again 
into  the  crowd.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  kept  his  head  and 
temper  ;  the  assailants  indi-^idually  were  too  insignificant  to 
put  out  his  strength  upon  ;  but  head  and  temper  were  rapidly 
going ; — he  was  like  a  bull  in  the  arena  with  the  picadores 
sticking  their  little  javelins  in  him.  A  smart  blow  on  the 
nose,  which  set  a  myriad  of  stars  dancing  before  his  eyes, 
finished  the  business,  and  he  rushed  after  the  last  assailant, 
dealing  blows  to  right  and  left,  on  small  and  great.  The  mob 
closed  in  on  him,  still  avoiding  attacks  in  front,  but  on  flank 
and  rear  they  hung  on  him,  and  battered  at  him.  He  had  to 
turn  sharply  round  after  every  step  to  shake  himself  clear, 
and  at  each  turn  the  press  thickened,  the  shouts  waxed  louder 
and  fiercer  ;  he  began  to  get  unsteady  ;  tottered,  swayed,  and, 
stumbling  over  a  prostrate  youth,  at  last  went  down  full 
length  on  to  the  pavement,  carrying  a  couple  of  his  assailants 
with  him.  And  now  it  would  have  fared  hardly  with  him, 
and  he  would  scarcely  have  reached  college  with  sound  bones, 
— for  I  am  sorry  to  say  an  Oxford  town  mob  is  a  cruel  and 
brutal  one,  and  a  man  who  is  down  has  no  chance  with  it, 
— but  that  for  one  moment  he  and  his  prostrate  foes  were  so 
jumbled  together  that  the  town  could  not  get  at  him,  and  the 
next  the  cry  of  "  Gown  !  gown  !  "  rose  high  above  the  din  ; 
the  town  were  swept  back  again  by  the  rush  of  a  reinforce- 
ment of  gownsmen,  the  leader  of  whom  seized  him  by  the 
shoulders  and  put  him  on  his  legs  again ;  while  his  late 
antagonists  crawled  away  to  the  side  of  the  road. 

"  Why,  Brown  !  "  said  his  rescuer, — Jervis,  the  Captain, — 
"  this  you  1     Not  hurt,  eh  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Tom. 
^  "  Good  ;  come  on,  then  ;  stick  to  me."  In  three  steps  they 
joined  the  rest  of  the  gown,  now  numbering  some  twenty 
men.  The  mob  was  close  before  them,  gathering  for  another 
rush.  Tom  felt  a  cruel,  wild  devil  beginning  to  rise  in  him  : 
he  had  never  felt  the  like  before.  This  time  he  longed  for 
the  next  crash,  which  happily  for  him,  was  fated  never  to 
come  off. 

"Your  names  and  colleges,  gentlemen,"  said  a  voice  close 
behind  them  at  this  critical  moment.  The  "  town  "  set  up  a 
derisive  shout,  and,  turning  round,  the  gownsmen  found  the 
velvet  sleeves  of  one  of  the  proctors  at  their  elbow,  and  liip 


MUSCULAR  CHRISTIANTTY.  121 

satellites,  vulgarly  called  bull-dogs,  taking  notes  of  them 
They  -were  completely  caught,  and  so  quietly  gave  the  required 
information. 

"  You  will  go  to  your  colleges  at  once,"  said  the  proctor, 
"  and  remain  within  gates.  You  will  see  these  gentlemen 
to  the  High-street,"  he  added  to  his  marshal ;  and  then 
strode  on  after  the  crowd,  which  was  vanishing  down  the 
street. 

The  men  turned  and  strolled  towards  the  High-street,  the 
marshal  keeping,  in  a  deferential  but  wide-awake  manner, 
pretty  close  to  them,  but  without  making  any  show  of  watch 
ing  them.  When  they  reached  the  High-street  he  touched 
his  hat  and  said  civilly,  "  I  hope  you  will  go  home  now, 
gentlemen,  the  senior  proctor  is  very  strict." 

"  All  right,  marshal ;  good  night,"  said  the  good-natured 
ones. 

"  D —  his  impudence,"  growled  one  or  two  of  the  rest,  and 
the  marshal  bustled  away  after  his  master.  The  men  looked 
at  one  another  for  a  moment  or  two.  They  were  of  different 
colleges,  and  strangers.  The  High-street  was  quiet ;  so, 
without  the  exchange  of  a  word,  after  the  manner  of  British 
youth,  they  broke  up  into  twos  and  threes,  and  parted.  Jervis, 
Tom,  and  Drysdale,  who  turned  up  quite  undamaged,  saun- 
tered together  towards  St.  Ambrose's. 

"  I  say,  where  are  we  going  1  "  said  Drysdale. 
"  l!Tot  to  college,  I  vote,"  said  Tom. 
"  Ko,  there  may  be  some  more  fan." 

"  Mighty  poor  fun,  I  should  say,  you'll  find  it,"  said  Jervis  ; 
"  however,  if  you  will  stay,  I  suppose  I  must.  I  can't  leave 
you  two  boys  by  yourselves." 

"  Come  along  then,  down  here."  So  they  turned  down 
one  of  the  courts  leading  out  of  the  High-street,  and  so  by 
back  streets  bore  up  again  for  the  disturbed  districts. 

"  Mind  and  keep  a  sharp  look  out  for  the  proctors,"  said 
Jervis  ;  "  as  much  row  as  you  please,  bu.t  we  musn't  be  caught 
again." 

"  "Well,  only  let's  keep  together  if  we  have  to  bolt." 
They  promenaded  in  lonely  dignity  for  some  five  minutes, 
keeping  eyes  and  ears  on  full  strain. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  said  Drysdale,  at  last,  "it  isn't  fair, 
these  enemies  in  the  camp  ;  what  with  the  '  town '  and  their 
stones  and  fists,  and  the  proctors  with  their  '  name  and  college,' 
we've  got  the  wrong  end  of  the  stick." 

"  Both  wrong  ends,  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Jervis.  "  Holloe, 
Brown,  your  nose  is  bleeding.'' 

<'  Is  it  ? "  said,  Tom,  drawing  his  hand  across  his  face  •  "  'twa§ 


122  TOM  BKOWN   AT   OXFOED. 

that  confounded  little  fellow  then  who  ran  np  to  my  side 
while  I  was  squaring  at  the  long  party.  I  felt  a  sharp  crack, 
and  the  little  rascal  holted  iuto  the  crowd  before  1  could  turn 
at  him." 

"  Cut  and  come  again,"  said  Drysdale,  laughing. 

"Ay,  that's  the  regular  thing  in  these  blackguard  strett 
squabbles.  Here  they  come  then,"  said  Jervis.  "  Stead v, 
aU." 

They  turned  round  to  face  the  town,  which  come  shoutini; 
down  the  street  behind  them  in  pursuit  of  one  gownsman,  ;■. 
little,  harmless,  quiet  fellow,  who  had  fallen  in  with  them  on 
his  way  back  to  his  college  from  a  tea  with  his  tutor,  and, 
like  a  wise  man,  was  gi'ving  them  leg-bail  as  hard  as  he  could 
foot  it.  But  the  little  man  was  of  a  courageous,  though 
prudent  soul,  and  turned  panting  and  gasping  on  his  foes 
the  moment  he  found  himself  amongst  friends  again. 

"  Now,  then,  stick  togetlier  ;  don't  let  them  get  round  us," 
said  Jervis. 

They  walked  steadily  dov/n  the  street,  which  was  luckily 
a  narrow  one,  so  that  three  of  them  could  keep  the  whole 
of  it,  halting  and  showing  front  every  few  yards,  when  the 
crowd  pressed  too  much.  "  Down  with  them  !  Town,  town  ! 
That's  two  as  was  in  tlie  show."  "  Mark  the  velvet-capped 
chap.  Town,  town  ! "  shouted  the  hinder  part  of  the 
mob ;  but  it  was  a  rabble  of  boys  as  before,  and  the  front 
rank  took  very  good  care  of  itself,  and  forbore  from  close 
quarters. 

The  small  gownsman  had  now  got  his  wind  again ;  and 
smarting  under  the  ignominy  of  his  recent  flight,  was  always 
a  pace  or  two  nearer  the  crowd  than  the  other  three,  ruffling 
up  like  a  little  bantam,  and  shouting  defiance  between  the 
catchings  of  his  breath. 

"  You  vagabonds !  you  cowards  !  Come  on  now,  I  say ! 
Gown,  gown  ! "  And  at  last,  emboldened  by  the  repeated 
halts  of  the  mob,  and  thirsting  for  revenge,  he  made  a  dash 
at  one  of  the  nearest  of  the  enemy.  The  suddenness  of  the 
attack  took  both  sides  by  surprise,  then  came  a  rush  by  two 
or  three  of  the  town  to  the  rescue. 

"  No,  no  !  stand  back — one  at  a  time,"  shouted  the  Captain, 
throwing  himself  between  the  combatants  and  the  mob.  "  "  Go 
it,  little  'un ;  serve  him  out.  Keep  the  rest  back,  boys  : 
steady  ! "  Tom  and  Drysdale  faced  towards  the  crowd,  whUo 
the  little  gownsman  and  his  antagonist — who  defended  himself 
vigorously  enough  now — came  to  close  quarters,  in  the  rear  of 
the  gown  line  ;  too  close  to  hurt  one  another,  but  what  with 
hugging  and  cufiflng,  the  townsman  in  another  half-minute 


MUSCULAR  CHEISTIANITY.  123 

was  sitting  quietly  on  the  pavement  with,  his  back  against  the 
wall,  his  enemy  squaring  in  front  of  him,  and  daring  him  to 
renew  the  combat.  "  Get  up,  you  coward ;  get  up,  I  say, 
you  coward  !  He  won't  get  up,"  said  the  little  man,  eagcrl}' 
turning  to  the  Captain.     "  Shall  I  give  him  a  kick  ]  " 

"  No,  let  the  cur  alone,"  replied  Jervis.  "  Now,  do  any 
more  of  you  want  to  fight  1  Come  on,  like  men,  one  at  a 
time.     I'll  fight  any  man  in  the  crowd." 

Whether  the  challenge  would  have  been  answered  must 
rest  uncertain ;  for  now  the  crowd  began  to  look  back,  and 
a  cry  arose,  "  Here  they  are,  proctors  !  now  they'll  run." 

"  So  we  must,  by  Jove,  Brown,"  said  the  Captain.     "  What's 
your  college  1 "  to  the  httle  hero. 
"  Pembroke." 

"  Cut  away,  then  ;  your  close  at  home ;" 
"Very  well,  if  I  must  :   good  night,"  and  away  went  the 
small  man  as  fast  as  he  had  come  ;    and  it  has  never  been 
neard  that  he  came  to  further  grief  or  performed  other  feats 
that  night. 

*'  Hang  it,  don't  let's  run,"  said  Drysdale. 
"Is  it  the  proctors  1  "  said  Tom.     "  I  can't  see  them." 
"  Mark  the  bloody-faced  one ;  kick  him  over,"  sang  out  a 
voice  in  the  crowd. 

"Thank'ee,"  said  Tom,  savagely.  "  Let's  have  one  rush  at 
them." 

"  Look  !  there's  the  proctor's  cap  just  through  them  ;  come 
along,  boys — well,  stay  if  you  like,  and  be  rusticated,  I'm 
off;"  and  away  went  Jervis,  and  the  next  moment  Tom  and 
Drysdale  followed  the  good  example,  and,  as  they  had  to  run, 
made  the  best  use  of  their  legs,  and  in  two  minutes  were  well 
ahead  of  their  pursuers.  They  turned  a  corner ;  "  Here, 
Brown  !  alight  in  this  public,  cut  in,  and  it's  all  right." 
Next  moment  they  were  in  the  dark  passage  of  a  quiet  Httle 
inn,  and  heard  with  a  chuckle  part  of  the  crowd  scurry  by 
the  door  in  pursuit,  while  they  themselves  suddenly  appeared 
in  the  neat  little  bar,  to  the  no  small  astonishment  of  its 
occupants.  I^ese  were  a  stout  elderly  woman  in  spectacles, 
who  was  stitching  away  at  plain  work  in  an  arm-chair  on  onb 
side  of  the  fire  ;  the  foreman  of  one  of  the  great  boat-builders, 
who  sat  opposite  her,  smoking  liis  pipe,  with  a  long  glass  of 
clear  ale  at  his  elbow  ;  and  a  bright-eyed,  neat-handed  barmaid, 
who  was  leaning  against  the  table,  and  talking  to  the  others  aa 
they  entered. 


124  TOM   BROWN  AT   OXFORD. 

CHAPTER  XIL 

THE   captain's   NOTIONS. 

The  old  lady  dropped  her  work,  the  barmaid  turned  round 
■with  a  start  and  little  ejaculation,  and  the  foreman  stared 
with  all  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  then,  jumping  up,  ex- 
claimed— 

"  Bless  us,  if  it  isn't  Muster  Drysdale  and  Muster  Brown, 
of  Ambrose's.  Why  what's  the  matter,  sir  ?  Muster  Brown, 
you  be  all  covered  wi'  blood,  sir." 

"  Oh  dear  me  !  poor  young  gentleman  ! "  cried  the  hostess  : 
— "  Here,  Patty,  run  and  tell  Dick  to  go  for  the  doctor,  and 
get  the  best  room  " — 

"  No,  please  don't ;  it's  nothing  at  all,"  interrupted  Tom, 
laughing  ; — "  a  basin  of  cold  water  and  a  towel,  if  you  please, 
Miss  Patty,  and  I  shall  be  quite  presentable  in  a  minute.  I'm 
very  sorry  to  have  frightened  you  all." 

Drysdale  joined  in  assurances  that  it  was  nothing  but  a 
little  of  his  friend's  "  claret,"  which  he  would  be  all  the 
better  for  losing,  and  watched  with  an  envious  eye  the  in- 
terest depicted  in  Patty's  pretty  face,  as  she  hurried  in  with 
a  basin  of  fresh  pumped  water,  and  held  the  towel.  Tom 
bathed  his  face,  and  very  soon  was  as  respectable  a  member 
of  society  as  usual,  save  for  a  slight  swelling  on  one  side  of 
his  nose. 

Drysdale  meantime — seated  on  the  table — had  been  ex- 
plaining the  circumstances  to  the  landlady  and  the  foreman. 
"  And  now,  ma'am,"  said  he,  as  Tom  joined  them  and  seated 
himself  on  a  vacant  chair,  "  I'm  sure  you  must  draw  famous 
ale." 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  think  Dick — that's  my  ostler,  sir — is  as 
good  a  brewer  as  is  in  the  town.  We  always  brews  at  homo, 
sir,  and  I  hope  always  shall." 

"  Quite  right,  ma'am,  quite  right,"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  and  I 
don't  think  we  can  do  better  than  follow  Jem  here.  Let  us 
have  a  jug  of  the  same  ale  as  he  is  drinking.  And  you'll 
take  a  glass  with  us,  Jem  ?  or  will  you  have  spirits  ? " 

Jem  was  for  another  glass  of  ale,  and  bore  witness  to  its 
being  the  best  in  Oxford,  and  Patty  drew  the  ale,  and  sup- 
plied two  more  long  glasses.  Drysdale,  with  apologies,  produced 
his  cigar-case ;  and  Jem,  under  the  influence  of  the  ale  and 
a  first-rate  Havannah  (for  which  he  deserted  his  pipe,  though 
he  did  not  enjoy  it  half  as  much),  volunteered  to  go  and 
rouse  the  yard  and  conduct  them  safely  back  to  coUege.  This 
offer  was  of  course  politely  declined,  and  then,  Jeiii's  how 


THE   CAPIAIN'S   NOTIONS.  125 

for  bed  having  come,  he,  being  a  methodical  man,  as  became 
his  position,  departed,  and  left  our  two  young  friends  in  sole 
possession  of  the  bar,  Xothing  could  liave  suited  the  two 
young  gentlemen  better,  and  they  set  to  work  to  make  them- 
selves agreeable.  They  listened  with,  lively  interest  to  the 
landlady's  statement  of  the  difficulties  of  a  mdow  woman  in 
a  house  like  hers,  and  to  her  praises  of  her  factotum  Dick 
and  her  niece  Patty.  They  applauded  her  resolution  of  not 
bringing  up  her  two  boys  in  the  publican  line,  though  they 
could  offer  no  very  available  answer  to  her  appeals  for 
advice  as  to  what  trade  they  should  be  put  to  ;  all  trades  were 
so  full,  and  things  were  not  as  they  used  to  be.  The  one 
thing,  apparently,  which  was  wanting  to  the  happiness  of 
Drysdale  at  Oxford,  was  the  discovery  of  such  beer  as  he  had 
at  last  found  at  "  The  Choughs."  Dick  was  to  come  up  to 
St.  Ambrose's  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  and  carry  off  his 
barrel,  which  would  never  contain  in  future  any  other  liquid. 
At  last  that  worthy  appeared  in  the  bar  to  know  when  he 
was  to  shut  up,  and  Avas  sent  out  by  his  mistress  to  see  that 
the  street  was  clear,  for  which  service  he  received  a  shilling, 
though  his  offer  of  escort  was  declined.  And  so,  after  paying 
in  a  splendid  manner  for  their  entertainment,  they  found 
themselves  in  the  street,  and  set  off  for  college,  agreeing  on 
the  way  that  "  The  Choughs  "  was  a  great  find,  the  old  lady 
the  best  old  soul  in  the  world,  and  Patty  the  prettiest  girl  in 
Oxford.  They  found  the  streets  quiet,  and  walking  quickly 
along  them,  knocked  at  the  college  gates  at  half-past  eleven. 
The  stout  porter  received  them  with  a  long  face. 

*'  Senior  proctor's  sent  down  here  an  hour  back,  gentlemen, 
to  find  whether  you  was  in  college." 

"  You  don't  mean  that,  porter  ?  How  kind  of  him  !  WTiat 
did  you  say  1 " 

"Said  I  didn't  know,  sir;  but  the  marshal  said,  if  you 
come  in  after,  thai  you  was  to  go  to  the  senior  proctor's  at 
half-past  nine  to-morrow." 

"  Send  my  compHments  to  the  senior  proctor,"  said  Drysdale, 
"  and  say  I  have  a  very  particular  engagement  to-morrow 
morning,  which  will  prevent  my  having  the  pleasure  of  calling 
on  him." 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  said  the  porter,  giving  a  little  dry  chuckle, 
and  tapping  the  keys  against  his  leg  ;  "  only  perhaps  you 
wouldn't  mind  Avriting  him  a  note,  sir,  as  he  is  rather  a  parti 
eular  gentleman." 

"  Didn't  he  send  after  any  one  else  1 "  said  Tom, 

"Yes,  sir,  Mr.  Jervis,  sir." 

"  "Well,  and  what  about  him  i  " 


126  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

"  Oh,  sii',  Mr.  Jervis  !  an  old  hand,  sir.  He'd  been  in  gates 
a  long  time,  sir,  when  the  marshal  came." 

"The  sly  old  beggar  ! "  said  Drysdale,  "good  night,  porter  . 
inind  you  send  my  message  to  the  proctor.  If  he  is  set  on 
seeing  me  to-morrow,  you  can  say  that  he  will  find  a  broiled 
chicken  and  a  hand  at  picquet  in  my  rooms,  if  he  likes  to 
tlrop  in  to  lunch." 

The  porter  looked  after  tbem  for  a  moment,  and  then  retired 
to  his  deep  old  chair  in  the  lodge,  pulled  liis  night-cap  over  his 
ears,  put  up  his  feet  before  the  fire  on  a  high  stool,  and  folded 
his  hands  on  his  lap.  "  The  most  impidentest  thing  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  is  a  gen'l'man-commoner  in  his  first  year," 
soliloquized  the  little  man.  "  'Twould  ha'  done  that  one  a 
sight  of  good,  now,  if  he'd  got  a  good  hiding  in  the  street 
to-night.  But  he's  better  than  most  on  'em,  too,"  lie  went 
on ;  "  uncommon  free  with  his  tongue,  but  just  as  free  with 
his  arf-sovereigns.  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  peach  if  the  proctor 
don't  send  again  in  the  morning.  That  sort's  good  for  the 
college  ;  makes  tilings  brisk  ;  has  his  ivin  from  town,  and 
don't  keep  no  keys.  I  wonder,  now,  if  my  Peter's  been  out 
a  fighting  ]  He's  pretty  nigh  as  hard  to  manage,  is  that  boy, 
as  if  he  was  at  college  hisseK." 

And  so,  muttering  over  his  domestic  and  professional 
grievances,  the  small  janitor  composed  himself  to  a  nap.  I 
may  add,  parenthetically,  that  his  hopeful  Peter,  a  precocious 
youth  of  seventeen,  scout's  boy  on  No.  3  Staircase  of  St. 
Ambrose's  College,  was  represented  in  the  boot  cleaning  and 
errand  line  by  a  substitute  for  some  days  ;  and  when  he 
returned  to  duty  was  minus  a  front  tooth. 

"  What  fools  we  were  not  to  stick  to  the  Captain.  I  wonder 
what  we  shall  get,"  said  Tom,  who  was  troubled  in  his  mind 
at  the  proctor's  message,  and  not  gifted  naturally  with  the 
recklessness  and  contempt  of  authority  which  in  Drysdale's 
case  approached  the  sublime. 

"  Who  cares  ?  I'll  be  bound,  now,  the  old  fox  came  straight 
home  to  earth.     Let's  go  and  knock  him  up." 

_  Tom  assented,  for  he  was  anxious  to  consult  Jervis  as  to 
his  proceedings  in  the  morning  ;  so  they  soon  found  them- 
selves drumming  at  his  oak,  which  was  opened  shortly  by 
"  the  stroke  "  in  an  old  boating-jacket.  They  followed  him  in. 
At  one  end  of  his  table  stood  his  tea-service  and  the  remains 
of  his  commons,  which  the  scout  had  not  cleared  away ;  at 
the  other,  open  books,  note-books,  and  maps  showed  tliat  the 
Capt.in  read,  as  he  rowed,  "  hard  all." 

"  Well,  are  you  two  only  just  in  1" 

"  Only  just,  my  Captain,"  answered  Drysdale. 


THE    CAPTAIN'S    NOTIOXS.  127 

•'  Have  you  been  well  thrashed,  then  ?  Yon  don't  look 
much  damaged." 

"  We  are  innocent  of  fight  since  your  sudden  departure — 
flight,  shall  I  call  it  ]— my  Captain." 

"  Where  have  you  been  ]" 

"  \Vhere  !  why  in  the  paragon  of  all  pothouses  ;  snug  little 
bar  with  red  curtains  ;  stout  old  benevolent  female  in  spec 
tacles  ;  barmaid  a  houri ;  and  for  malt,  the  most  touching 
tap  in  Oxford — home-brewed,  too,  wasn't  it,  Brown  V 

"  Yes,  the  beer  was  undeniable,"  said  Tom. 

"Well,  and  you  dawdled  there  till  now?"  said  Jervis. 

"  Even  so.  What  with  mobs  that  wouldn't  fight  fair,  and 
and  captains  who  would  run  away,  and  proctors  and  marshals 
who  would  interfere,  we  were  '  perfectly  disgusted  with  the 
whole  proceedings,'  as  the  Scotchman  said  when  he  was  sen- 
tenced to  be  hanged." 

"  AYell  !  Heaven,  they  say,  protects  children,  sailors,  and 
drunken  men ;  and  whatever  answers  to  Heaven  in  the 
academical  system  protects  freshmen,"  remarked  Jervis. 

"Not  us,  at  any  rate,"  said  Tom,  "for  we  are  to  go  to  the 
proctor  to-morrow  morning." 

"  What,  did  he  catch  you  in  your  famous  public  1  " 

"  No  ;  the  marshal  came  round  to  the  porter's  lodge,  asked 
if  we  were  in,  and  left  word  that,  if  we  were  not,  we  were  to 
go  to  him  in  the  morning.  The  porter  told  us  just  now  as 
we  came  in." 

"Pshaw,"  said  the  Captain,  with  disgust;  "now  you'll 
both  be  gated  probably,  and  the  Avhole  crew  wUl  be  thrown 
out  of  gear.  Why  couldn't  you  have  come  home  when  I 
did  ? " 

"  We  do  not  propose  to  attend  the  levee  of  that  excellent 
person  in  office  to-morrow  morning,"  said  Drysdale.  "  Ho 
will  forget  all  about  it.  Old  Copas  won't  say  a  word — catch 
him.     He  gets  too  much  out  of  me  for  that." 

"  Well,  you'll  see  ;  I'll  back  the  proctor's  memory." 

"  But,  Captain,  what  are  you  going  to  stand  1 " 

"  Stand  !  nothing,  unless  you  like  a  cup  of  cold  tea.  You'll 
get  no  wine  or  spirits  here  at  this  time  of  night,  and  the 
buttery  is  shut.  Besides,  you've  had  quite  as  much  beer  as 
is  good  for  you  at  your  paragon  public." 

"Come,  now.  Captain,  just  two  glasses  of  sherry,  and  I'll 
promise  to  go  to  bed." 

"  Not  a  thimbleful." 

"  You  old  tyrant ! "  said  Drysdale,  hopping  off  his  perch 
on  the  elbow  of  the  sofa.  "  Come  along,  Brown,  let's  go  and 
diaw  for  some  supper,  and  a  hand  at  Van  Jolin.      There's  sixre 


128  TOM  BEOWN    AT   OXFORD. 

to  be  some  going  up  my  staitcase  ;  or,  at  any  rate,  there's  & 
cool  bottle  of  claret  in  my  rooms." 

"  Stop  and  have  a  talk,  Drown,"  said  the  Captain,  and 
prevailed  against  Drysdale,  who,  after  another  attempt  to 
draw  Tom  off,  departed  on  liis  quest  for  drink  and  cards. 

"  He'll  never  do  for  the  boat,  I'm  afraid,"  said  the  Captain  ; 
"  with  his  rascally  late  hours,  and  drinking,  and  eating  all  sorts 
of  trash.    It's  a  pity,  too,  for  he's  a  pretty  oar  for  his  weight." 

"  He  is  such  uncommon  good  company,  too,"  said  Tom. 

"  Yes  ;  but  I'll  tell  you  what.  He's  just  a  leetle  too  good 
company  for  you  and  me,  or  any  fellows  who  mean  to  take  a 
degree.  Let's  see,  this  is  only  his  third  term  1  I'll  give  him, 
perhaps,  two  more  to  make  the  place  too  hot  to  hold  him. 
Take  my  word  for  it,  he'll  never  get  to  his  little-go." 

"  It  wUl  be  a  great  pity,  then,"  said  Tom. 

"So  it  vnlL  But  after  all,  you  see,  what  does  it  matter  to 
him  1  He  gets  rusticated  ;  takes  his  name  off  witli  a  flourish 
of  trumpets — what  then  ]  He  falls  back  on  5,000/.  a  year 
in  land,  and  a  good  accumulation  in  consols ;  runs  abroad, 
or  lives  in  town  for  a  year.  Takes  the  hoiinds  when  he  comes 
of  age,  or  is  singled  out  by  some  discerning  constituency,  and 
sent  to  make  laws  for  his  country,  having  spent  the  Avhole  of 
his  life  hitherto  in  breaking  all  the  laws  he  ever  came  under. 
You  and  I,  perhaps,  go  fooHng  about  Avith  him,  and  get  rusti- 
cated. We  make  our  friends  miserable.  We  can't  take  our 
names  off,  but  have  to  come  cringing  back  at  the  end  of  our 
year,  marked  men.  Keep  our  tails  between  our  legs  for  the 
rest  of  our  time.  Lose  a  year  at  our  professions,  and  mosl 
likely  have  the  slip  casting  up  against  us  in  one  way  or  another 
for  the  next  twenty  years.  It's  like  the  old  story  of  the  giant, 
and  the  dwarf,  or  like  fighting  a  sweep,  or  any  other  one- 
sided busuiess." 

"  But  I'd  sooner  have  to  fight  my  own  way  in  the  world 
after  all ;  wouldn't  you  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  H — m — m  !  "  said  the  Captain,  throwing  himself  back  in 
the  chair,  and  smiling  ;  "  can't  ausv/er  off  hand.  I'm  a  third- 
year  man,  and  begin  to  see  the  other  side  rather  clearer  than 
I  did  when  I  was  a  freshman  like  you.  Three  years  at  Oxford, 
^.y  tjoy,  Avill  teach  you  something  of  what  rank  and  money 
count  for,  if  they  teach  you  nothing  else." 

"  Why  here's  tlio  Captain  smgiug  the  same  song  as  Hardy," 
thought  Tom. 

"  So  you  two  have  to  go  to  the  proctor  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Shall  you  go  1     Drysdale  won't." 

"  Of  course  1  shall     It  seems  to  me  childish  not  to  go ;  a^ 


THE   CAPTAIN'S   NOTIONS.  129 

if  1  wore  back  in  tlie  lower  school  again.  To  tell  you  tlie 
truth,  the  being  sent  for  isn't  pleasant;  but  the  other  I 
couldn't  stand." 

"Well,  I  don't  feel  anything  of  that  sort.  Eut  I  tliink 
you're  right  on  the  whole.  The  clinnces  are  that  he'll  re- 
member your  name,  and  send  for  you  again  if  you  don't  go ; 
and  then  you'll  be  worse  off." 

*'  You  don't  think  he'll  rusticate  us,  or  anything  of  that  sorf? " 
said  Tom,  Avho  had  felt  horrible  twinges  at  the  Captain's 
picture  of  the  effects  of  rustication  on  ordinary  mortals. 

"  No  ;  not  unless  he's  in  a  very  bad  humour.  I  was  caught 
three  times  in  one  night  in  my  freshman's  term,  and  only  got 
an  imposition." 

"  Then  I  don't  care,"  said  Tom.  "  But  it's  a  bore  to  have 
been  caught  in  so  seedy  an  affair ;  if  it  had  been  a  real  good 
roAv,  one  wouldn't  have  minded  so  much." 

"Why,  what  did  you  expect?  It  was  neither  better  nor 
worse  than  the  common  run  of  such  things." 

"  Well,  but  throe  parts  of  the  crowd  were  boys." 

"  So  they  are  always — or  nine  times  out  of  ten  at  any  rate." 

"  But  there  was  no  real  lighting  :  at  least,  I  only  know  I 
got  none." 

"  There  isn't  any  real  fighting,  as  you  call  it,  nine  times  out 
of  ten." 

"  AVhat  is  there,  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  something  of  this  sort.  Five  shopboys,  or  scouts' 
boys,  full  of  sauciness,  loitering  at  an  out-of-the-way  sti'ect 
corner.  Enter  two  freshmen,  full  of  dignity  and  bad  wine. 
JCxplosion  of  inflammable  material.  Freshmen  mobbed  into 
High-street  or  Broad  sti'eet,  where  the  tables  are  turned  by 
the  gathering  of  many  more  freshmen,  and  the  mob  of  town 
boys  quietly  subsides,  puts  its  hands  in  its  pockets,  and  ceases 
to  shout  'Town,  town!'  l"he  triumphant  freshmen  march 
up  and  down  for  perhaps  half  an  hour,  shouting  '  Gown, 
gown  ! '  and  looking  furious,  but  not  half  sorry  that  the  mob 
vanishes  like  mist  at  their  approach.  Then  come  the  jn'octors, 
who  hunt  down,  and  break  up  the  gown  in  some  half-hour  or 
hour.  The  '  town '  again  marches  about  in  the  ascendant, 
and  mobs  the  scattered  freshmen,  wherever  they  can  be  caught 
in  very  small  numbers." 

"  But  with  all  your  chaff  about  freshmen.  Captain,  you  were 
in  it  yourself  to-night ;  come  now." 

"  Of  course,  I  had  to  look  after  you  two  boys." 

"  But  you  didn't  know  we  were  in  it  when  y^a  came  up." 

"  I  was  sure  to  find  some  of  you.  Besides,  I'll  admit  one 
don't  like  to  go  in  while  there's  any  chance  oi  a  real   row  as 

E 


ISO  TOM    BEOWN    AT   OXFORD. 

you  call  it,  and  so  gets  proctorized  in  one's  old  age  for  one'is 
patriotism." 

"  Were  you  ever  in  a  real  row  1 "  said  Tom. 
"  Yes,  once,  about  a  year  ago.     The  fighting  numbers  were 
about   equal,    and   the   town  all  grown   men,   labourers  and 
mechanics.     It  was  desperate  hard  work,  none  of  your  shoj'* 
ing  and  promenading.     Tliat  Hardy,  one  of  our  Bible  clerlis, 
fought  like  a  Paladin  ;  I  k'low  I  shifted  a  fellow  in  corduroys 
on  to  him,  whom  I  had  found  an  uncommon  tough  customer, 
and  never  felt  better  pleased  in  my  life  than  when  I  saw  the 
light  glance  on  his  hobnails  as  he  went  over  into  the  gutter 
two  minutes  afterwards.     It  lasted,  perhaps,  ten  minutes,  and 
both  sides  were  very  glad  to  draw  off." 
"But,  of  course,  you  licked  them?  " 
"  We  said  we  did." 

"  Well,  I  believe  that  a  gentleman  will  always  lick  in  a  fan 
fight." 

"  Of  course  you  do,  it's  the  orthodox  belief." 
"  But  don't  you  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  if  he  is  as  big  and  strong,  and  knows  how  to  fight 
as  well  as  the  other.     The  odds  are  that  he  cares  a  little  more 
for  giving  in,  and  that  will  pull  him  through." 
"  That  isn't  saying  much,  though," 

"  'No,  but  it's  quite  as  much  as  is  true.  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  is,  I  think  just  this,  that  we  are  generally  better  in  the 
fighting  way  than  sho])keepers,  clerks,  flunkies,  and  all  fellows 
who  don't  work  hard  with  theii"  bodies  all  day.  But  the 
moment  you  come  to  the  real  hard-fisted  fellow,  used  to  nine 
or  ten  hours'  work  a  day,  he's  a  cruel  hard  customer.  Take 
seventy  or  eighty  of  them  at  haphazard,  the  first  you  meet, 
and  turn  them  into  St.  Ambrose  any  morning — by  night  T 
take  it  they  would  be  lords  of  this  venerable  establishment 
if  we  had  to  fight  for  the  possession ;  except,  perhaps,  foi 
that  Hardy — he's  one  of  a  thousand,  and  was  born  for  a 
fighting  man  ;  perhaps  he  might  pull  us  through." 
"  Why  don't  you  try  him  in  the  l)oat  1 " 
"  Miller  manages  all  that.  I  spoke  to  him  about  it  after 
that  row,  but  he  said  that  Hardy  had  refused  to  subscribe  to 
the  club,  said  he  couldn't  allbrd  it,  or  something  of  the  sort. 
I  don't  see  why  that  need  matter,  myself,  but  I  suppose,  as 
we  have  rules,  we  ought  to  stick  to  them." 

"  It's  a  great  pity  though.  I  know  Hardy  well,  and  you 
can't  think  what  a  fine  fellow  he  is." 

"  I'm  sure  of  that.  I  tried  to  know  him,  and  we  don't  get 
OTi  badly  as  speaking  acquaintance.  But  he  seems  a  queer, 
solitary  bird." 


THE  captain's   NOTIONS.  131 

Twelve  o'clock  struck ;  so  Tom  wished  the  Captain  good 
night  and  departed,  meditating  much  on  what  he  had  heard 
and  seen.  The  vision  of  territic  single  combats,  in  which  tlie 
descendant  of  a  hundred  earls  polishes  off  the  liuge  repre- 
sentative of  the  masses  in  the  most  finished  style,  A\athout  a 
scratch  on  his  own  aristocratic  features,  had  faded  from  his 
mind. 

He  went  to  bed  that  night,  fairly  sickened  with  his  ex- 
perience of  a  town  and  gown  row,  and  with  a  nasty  taste  in 
his  mouth.  But  he  felt  much  pleased  at  having  drawn  out 
the  Captain  so  completely.  For  "the  stroke"  was  in  general  a 
man  of  marvellous  few  words,  having  many  better  uses  than 
talking  to  put  his  breath  to. 

Next  morning  he  attended  at  the  proctor's  rooms  at  the 
appointed  time,  not  without  some  feeling  of  shame  at  having 
to  do  so  ;  which,  however,  wore  off  when  he  found  some  dozen 
men  of  other  colleges  waiting  about  on  the  same  errand  as 
himself.  In  his  turn  he  was  ushered  in,  and,  as  he  stood  by 
the  door,  had  time  to  look  the  great  man  over  as  he  sat  making 
a  note  of  the  case  he  had  just  disposed  of.  The  inspection 
was  reassuring.  The  proctor  was  a  gentlemanly,  straight- 
forward-looking man  of  about  thirty,  not  at  all  donnish,  and 
his  address  answered  to  his  appearance. 

"  Mr.  Brown,  of  St.  Ambrose's,  I  think,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  I  sent  you  to  your  collage  yesterday  evening  :  did  you  go 
straight  home  1 " 

"  No,  SU-." 

"  How  was  that,  Mv.  Brown  ? " 

Tom  made  no  answer,  and  the  proctor  looked  at  him  steadily 
for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  repeated, 

"  How  was  that  1 " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Tom,  "  I  don't  mean  to  say  I  was  going 
straight  to  college,  but  1  should  have  been  in  long  before  yuu 
sent,  only  I  fell  in  with  the  mob  again,  and  then  there  was  a 
cry  that  you  were  coming.     And  so — "     He  paused. 

"Well,"  said  the  proctor,  mth  a  grim  sort  of  curl  about 
the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  Why,  I  ran  away,  and  turned  into  the  first  place  which 
was  open,  and  stopped  till  the  streets  were  quiet." 

"  A  public  house,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  '  The  Choughs.'  " 

The  proctor  considexed  a  minute,  and  again  scrutinized 
Tom's  look  and  manner,  which  certainly  were  straightforward, 
and  without  any  tinge  of  cringing  or  insolence. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  up  i  " 
s2 


132  TOM   BROWN    AT   OXrOKD. 

"  This  is  my  second  term,  sir." 

"  You  have  never  been  sent  to  me  before,  I  think  1 " 

"  Never,  sir." 

"  Well,  I  can't  overlook  this,  as  you  yourself  confess  to  a 
direct  act  of  disobedience.  You  must  write  me  out  200  lines 
of  Virgil.  And  now,  ^fr.  Brown,  let  me  advise  you  to  keep  out 
of  tliese  disreputable  street  quai'rcls  in  future.  Good  morning." 

Tom  hurried  away,  wondering  what  it  would  feel  like  to 
be  writing  out  Virgil  again  as  a  punishment  at  his  time  of 
life,  but  glad  above  measure  that  the  proctor  had  asked  him 
no  questions  about  his  companion.  That  hero  was,  of  course, 
mightily  tickled  at  the  result,  and  seized  the  occasion  to 
lecture  Tom  on  his  future  conduct,  holding  himself  up  as  a 
living  example  of  the  benefits  which  were  sure  to  accrue  to 
a  man  who  never  did  anything  he  was  told  to  do.  The  sound- 
ness of  his  reasoning,  however,  was  somewhat  shaken  by  the 
dean,  who,  on  that  same  afternoon,  managed  to  catch  him  in 
quad  ;  and,  carrying  him  off,  discoursed  with  him  concerning 
his  various  and  systematic  breaches  of  disci])line,  pointed  out 
to  him  tliat  he  had  already  made  such  good  use  of  his  time 
that  if  he  were  to  be  discommonsed  for  three  more  days  he 
would  lose  his  term ;  and  then  took  off  his  cross,  gave  him  a 
book  of  Virgil  to  write  out,  and  gated  him  for  a  fortnight 
alter  halh  Drysdale  sent  out  his  scout  to  order  his  punish- 
ment as  he  might  have  ordered  a  waistcoat,  presented  old 
Copas  with  a  half-sovereign,  and  then  dismissed  punishment 
and  gating  from  his  mind,  lie  cultivated  with  great  success 
the  science  of  mental  gymnastics,  or  throwing  everything 
the  least  unpleasant  off  his  mind  at  once.  And  no  doubt 
it  is  a  science  worthy  of  all  cultivation,  if  one  desires  to  lead 
a  comfortable  hfe.  It  gets  harder,  however,  as  the  yeais 
roll  over  us,  to  attain  to  any  satisfactory  proficiency  in  it ;  so 
tliat  it  should  be  mastered  as  early  in  life  as  may  be. 

The  town  and  gown  row  was  the  talk  of  the  college  for  the 
next  week,  Tom,  of  course,  talked  much  about  it,  like  his 
neighbours,  and  confided  to  one  and  another  the  Captain's 
heresies.  They  were  all  incredulous  ;  for  no  one  had  ever 
hijard  him  talk  as  much  in  a  term  as  Tom  reported  him  to 
have  done  on  this  one  evening. 

So  it  Avas  resolved  that  he  should  be  taken  to  task  on  the 
subject  on  the  first  opportunity ;  and,  as  nobody  was  afraid  of 
him,  there  was  no  difficulty  in  finding  a  man  to  bell  the  cat. 
Accordingly,  at  the  next  wine  of  the  boating  set,  the  Captain 
had  scarcely  entered  when  he  was  assailed  by  the  host  with— 
"  Jervis,  BroA\'n  says  you  don't  believe  a  gentleman  can  lick 
a  cad,  unless  he  is  the  biggest  and  strongest  of  the  two." 


THE    CAPTAIN'S    NOTIONS.  133 

Tlio  Captain,  ^vlio  hated  coming  out  with  his  beliefs,  shrugged 

his  shouhiers,  sipped  his  wine,  and  tried  to  turn  the  subject. 

But,  seeing  that  they  Avere  all  bent  on  drawing  him  out,  he 

was  not  the  man  to  run  from  his  guns  ;  and  so  said  quietly,    , 

"  No  more  I  do." 

Notwithstanding  the  reverence  in  which  he  was  held,  this 
saying  could  not  be  allowed  to  pass,  and  a  dozen  voices  wcro 
instantly  raised,  and  a  dozen  autlientic  stories  told  to  confute 
him.  Ho  listened  patiently,  and  then,  seeing  he  was  in  for 
it,  said, 

"  Never  mind  fighting.  Try  something  else  ;  cricket,  for 
instance.  The  players  generally  beat  the  gentlemen,  don't 
th<!y  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  but  they  arc  professionals." 

"  AVell,  and  we  don't  often  get  a  university  crew  which 
can  beat  the  watermen  1 " 
"  Professionals  again." 

"  I  believe  the  markers  are  the  best  tennis-players,  ain't 
they'?"  persevered  the  Captain;  "and  I  generally  find  keepers 
and  huntsmen  shooting  and  riding  better  than  their  masters, 
don't  you  1 " 

"  But  that's  not  fair.  All  the  cases  you  put  ai'e  those  of 
men  who  have  nothing  else  to  do,  who  live  by  the  things 
which  gentlemen  only  take  up  for  pleasure." 

"I  only  say  that  the  cads,  as  you  call  them,  manage,  some- 
how or  another,  to  do  them  best,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  How  about  the  army  and  navy?  The  officers  always  lead." 

"  Well,  there  they're  all  professionals,  at  any  rate,"  said  the 

Captain.    "I admit  that  the  officers  lead  ;  but  the  men  follow 

pretty  close.     And  in  a  forlorn  hope  there  are  fifty  men  to 

one  officer,  after  all."' 

"  But  they  must  be  led.  The  men  will  never  go  without 
an  officer  to  lead." 

"  It's  the  officers'  business  to  lead,  I  know ;  and  they  do 
it.  But  you  won't  find  the  best  judges  talking  as  if  the  men 
wanted  much  leading.  Read  Napier :  the  finest  story  in  his 
book  is  of  the  sergeant  who  gave  his  life  for  his  boy  officer's 
— your  namesake,  Brown — at  the  Coa." 

"  Well,  I  never  thought  to  hear  you  crying  down  gentle- 
men." 

"  I'm  not  crying  down  gentlemen,"  said  the  Captain.  "  I 
only  say  that  a  gentleman's  flesh  and  blood,  and  brains,  are 
just  the  same,  and  no  better  than  another  man's.  He  has  all 
the  chances  on  his  side  in  the  way  of  training,  and  pretty 
near  all  the  prizes  ;  so  it  would  be  hard  if  he  didn't  do  most 
things  better  than  poor  men.     But  give  them  the  chance  of 


134  TOM  BROAVN  AT  OXFORD, 

training,  and  tliey  will  tread  on  Ms  heels  soon  enough.  Tliat'a 
all  I  say." 

That  was  all,  certainly,  that  the  Captain  said,  and  then 
relapsed  into  his  usual  good-tempered  monosyllabic  state ; 
from  which  all  the  eager  talk  of  the  men,  who  took  up  tho 
cudgels  naturally  enough  for  their  own  class,  and  talked  them- 
selves before  the  wine  broke  up  into  a  renewed  consciousness 
of  their  natural  superiority,  failed  again  to  rouse  him. 

This  was,  in  fact,  the  Captain's  weak  point,  if  he  had  one. 
lie  had  strong  beliefs  himself ;  one  of  the  strongest  of  which 
was,  that  nobody  could  be  taught  anything  except  by  his  o\m 
experience ;  so  he  never,  or  very  rarely,  exercised  his  own 
personal  influence,  biit  just  quietly  went  his  own  way,  and 
let  other  men  go  theirs.  Another  of  his  beliefs  was,  that 
there  was  no  man  or  thing  in  the  world  too  bad  to  be  tolerated ; 
faithfully  acting  up  to  which  belief,  the  Captain  himself 
tolerated  persons  and  thrngs  intolerable. 

Bearing  which  facts  in  mind,  the  reader  will  easily  guess 
the  result  of  the  application  which  the  crew  duly  made  to 
him  the  day  after  Miller's  back  was  turned.  He  simply  said 
that  the  training  they  proposed  would  not  be  enough,  and 
that  ho  himself  should  take  all  who  chose  to  go  down,  to 
Abingdon  twice  a  week.  From  that  time  there  were  many 
dafaulters  ;  and  the  spirit  of  Diogenes  groaned  within  him, 
as  day  after  day  the  crew  had  to  be  fiUed  up  from  the  torpid 
or  by  watermen.  Drysdale  would  ride  down  to  Sandford, 
meeting  the  boat  on  its  way  up,  and  then  take  his  place  for 
the  pull  up  to  Oxford,  while  his  groom  rode  his  horse  up  to 
F(jlly  bridge  to  meet  him.  There  he  would  mount  again  and 
ride  off  to  Bullingdon,  or  to  the  Isis,  or  Quentin,  or  other 
social  meeting  equally  inimical  to  good  training.  Blake  often 
absented  himself  three  days  in  a  week,  and  other  men  onco 
or  twice. 

From  considering  which  facts,  Tom  came  to  understand 
the  difference  between  his  two  heroes ;  their  strong  likeness 
in  many  points  he  had  seen  from  the  first.  They  were  alike 
in  truthfulness,  bravery,  bodily  strength,  and  in  most  of  their 
opinions.  But  Jervis  worried  himself  about  nothing,  and 
let  all  men  and  things  alone,  in  the  belief  that  the  world  was 
not  going  so  very  wrong,  or  would  right  itself  somehow 
without  him.  Hardy,  on  the  other  hand,  was  consuming 
his  heart  over  everything  that  seemed  to  him  to  be  going 
vi^rong  in  himself  and  round  about  him — in  the  college,  in 
Oxford,  in  England,  in  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  never  letting 
slip  a  chance  of  trying  to  set  right,  here  a  thread,  and  there 
a  tliread.    A  self-questioning,  much-enduring  manj  a  slayer 


THE  captain's  notions.  135 

of  drAgons  timself,  and  one  with  whom  you  could  not  live 
much  without  getting  uncomfortably  aware  of  the  dragons 
which  you  also  had  to  slay. 

What  wonder  that,  apart  altogether  from  the  difference  in 
their  social  position,  the  one  man  was  ever  becoming  more  and 
more  popular,  while  the  other  was  left  more  and  more  to 
himself.  There  are  few  of  us  at  Oxford,  or  elsewhere,  who 
do  not  like  to  see  a  man  living  a  brave  and  righteous  lifo,  co 
long  as  he  keeps  clear  of  us  ;  and  still  fewer  who  do  like  to 
be  in  constant  contact  with  one  who,  not  content  with  so 
living  himself,  is  always  coming  across  them,  and  laying  bare 
to  them  their  own  faint-heartedness,  and  sloth,  and  meaniiess. 
The  latter,  no  doubt,  inspires  the  deeper  feeling,  and  lays  hold 
with  a  firmer  grip  of  the  men  he  does  lay  hold  of,  but  they  are 
few.  For  men  can't  keep  always  up  to  high  pressure  till 
they  have  found  firm  ground  to  build  upon,  altogetlier  outside 
of  themselves  ;  and  it  is  hard  to  be  thankful  and  fair  to  those 
who  are  showing  us  time  after  time  that  our  foothold  is 
nothing  but  shifting  sand. 

The  contrast  between  Jervis  and  Hardy  now  began  to  force 
itself  daily  more  and  more  on  our  hero's  attention.  From  the 
night  of  the  town  and  gown  row,  "The  Choughs,"  became  a 
regular  haunt  of  the  St.  Ambrose  crew,  who  were  taken  there 
under  the  guidance  of  Tom  and  Drysdale  the  next  day.  Not 
content  with  calling  there  on  his  way  from  the  boats,  there 
was  seldom  an  evening  now  that  Tom  did  not  manage  to  di'op 
in  and  spend  an  hour  there. 

Wlien  one  is  very  much  bent  on  doing  a  thing,  it  is  generally 
easy  enough  to  find  very  good  reasons,  or  excuses  at  any  rate, 
for  it ;  and  whenever  any  doubts  crossed  Tom's  mind,  he 
silenced  them  by  the  refiection  that  the  time  he  spent  at 
"  The  Choughs  "  would  otherwise  have  been  devoted  to  wine 
parties  or  billiards  ;  and  it  was  not  difficult  to  persuade  him- 
self that  his  present  occupation  was  the  more  wholesome  of  the 
two.  He  could  not,  however,  feel  satisfied  till  he  had  mentioned 
his  change  in  life  to  Hardy.  This  ho  fjund  a  much  more 
embarrassing  matter  than  he  had  fancied  it  would  be.  Eut, 
after  one  or  two  false  starts,  he  managed  to  get  out,  tiiat 
he  had  found  the  best  glass  of  ale  in  Oxford,  at  a  quiet  little 
public  on  the  way  to  the  boats,  kept  by  the  most  perfect  of 
widows,  with  a  factotum  of  an  ostler,  who  was  a  regular 
character,  and  that  he  went  there  most  evenings  for  an  hour 
or  so.     Wouldn't  Hardy  come  some  night  ? 

No,  Hardy  couldn't  spare  the  time. 

Tom  felt  rather  relieved  at  this  answer  ;  but,  nevertheless, 
went  on  to  m-ge  the  excellence  of  the  ale  as  a  fui'ther  indur^ment; 


136  ToM    BKOWN    AT   OXFORD. 

"  I  don't  bolieve  it's  half  so  good  as  our  college  beer,  and 
I'll  be  bound  it's  half  as  dear  again." 

"  Only  a  penny  a  pint  dearer,"  said  Tom,  "  that  won't  ruin 
you, — all  tlift  crew  go  there." 

"If  I  were  the  Captain,"  said  Hardy,  "  I  wouldn't  let  you 
run  about  drinking  ale  at  night  after  wine  parties.  Does  he 
know  about  it  1 " 

"  Yes,  and  goes  there  hiaiself  often  on  the  way  from  the 
boats,"  said  Tom. 

"And  at  night,  too?"  said  Hardy. 

"No,"  said  Tom,  "but  I  don't  go  there  after  drinking 
wine  ;  I  haven't  been  to  a  wine  these  ten  days^  at  least  not  for 
more  than  five  minutes." 

"  Well,  sound  ale  is  better  than  Oxford  wine,"  said  Hardy. 
"  if  you  must  drink  something  ; "  and  so  the  subject  dropped 

And  Tom  went  away  satisfied  that  Hardy  had  not  dis- 
approved of  his  new  habit  It  certainly  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  omitted  all  mention  of  the  pretty  barmaid  in  his 
enumeration  of  the  attractions  of  "  The  Chouglis,"  but  this 
he  set  down  to  mere  accident ;  it  was  a  sliji  which  he  would 
set  right  in  their  next  talk.  But  that  talk  never  came,  and 
the  subject  was  not  again  mentioned  between  them.  In  fact, 
to  tell  the  truth,  Tom's  visits  to  his  friend's  room  in  tho 
evenings  became  shorter  and  less  freqi^ent  as  "  The  Clioughs  " 
absorbed  more  and  more  of  his  time.  He  made  excuses  to 
himself,  that  Hardy  must  be  glad  of  more  time,  and  would  bo 
only  bored  if  he  kept  dropping  in  every  night,  now  that  the 
examination  for  degree  was  so  near  ;  tliat  he  was  sure  he 
drove  Grey  away,  who  would  be  of  much  more  use  to  Hardy 
just  now.  These,  and  many  other  equally  plausible  reasons, 
suggested  themselves  whenever  his  conscience  smote  him  fox 
liis  neglect,  as  it  did  not  seldom.  But  he  always  managed  to 
satisfy  himself  somehow,  without  admitting  the  real  fact,  that 
these  visits  were  no  longer  what  they  had  been  to  him  ;  that 
a  yulf  had  sprung  up,  and  was  widening  day  by  day  between 
him  and  the  only  friend  who  would  have  had  the  courage 
ami  honesty  to  tell  him  the  truth  about  his  new  pursuit, 
JVIeantinie  Hardy  was  much  pained  at  the  chan.ge  in  liis  friend, 
which  he  saw  quickly  enough,  and  often  thought  over  it  with 
a  sigh  as  he  sat  at  his  solitary  tea.  He  set  it  down  to  his 
own  dulness,  to  the  number  of  new  friends  such  a  sociable 
fellow  as  Tom  was  sure  to  make,  and  who,  of  coursb,  would 
take  up  more  and  more  of  his  time  ;  and,  if  he  felt  a  little 
jealousy  every  now  and  then,  put  it  resolutely  back,  struggling 
to  think  no  evil,  or  if  there  were  any,  to  lay  it  on  iiis  own 
shoulders. 


TiiK  captain's  notions.  ]o7 

Cribbage  is  a  most  virtuous  and  respectable  game,  and  yet 
scarcely,  one  would  think,  possessing  in  itself  sufficient  attrac- 
tions to  keep  a  young  gentleman  in  his  twentieth  year  tied  to 
the  board,  and  going  througl)  the  quaint  calculation  night  after 
night  of  "  fifteen  two,  fifteen  four,  two  for  his  nob,  and  one 
for  his  heels."  The  old  landlady  of  "  The  Choughs  "  liked 
nothing  so  much  as  her  game  of  cribbago  in  the  evenings, 
and  the  board  lay  ready  on  the  little  table  by  lier  elbow  in 
the  cozy  bar,  a  sure  stepping-stone  to  her  good  graces.  Tom 
somehow  became  an  enthusiast  in  cribbago,  and  would  always 
loiter  behind  his  companions  for  his  quiet  game  ;  chatting 
pleasantly  while  the  old  hvdy  cut  nnd  shuffled  the  dirty  pack, 
striving  keenly  for  the  nightly  stake  of  sixpence,  whicli  he 
selilom  failed  to  lose,  and  laugliingly  wrangling  witli  her  over 
the  last  points  in  the  game  which  decided  the  ti'ansfer  of  the 
two  sixpences  (duly  posted  in  the  snutfer  tray  beside  the 
ci-ibbage- board)  into  his  waistcoat  pocket  or  her  bag,  until 
she  would  take  off  her  spectacles  to  wipe  them,  and  sink  back 
in  her  chau'  exhausted  with  the  pleasing  excitement. 

Such  an  odd  taste  as  it  seemed,  too,  a  bystander  might 
reasonably  have  thouglit,  when  he  might  have  been  employing 
his  time  so  much  more  pleasantly  in  the  very  room.  For, 
flitting  in  and  out  of  the  bar  during  the  game,  and  every  now 
and  then  stooping  over  the  old  lady's  shoulder  to  examine  her 
hand,  and  exchange  knowing  looks  with  her,  was  the  lithe 
little  figure  of  ISIiss  Patty,  with  her  oval  face,  and  merry  eyes, 
and  bright  brown  hair,  and  jaunty  little  cap,  with  fresh  blue 
ribbons  of  the  shade  of  the  St.  Ambrose  colours.  However, 
there  is  no  accounting  for  tastes,  and  it  is  fortunate  that  some 
like  apples  and  some  onions.  It  may  possibly  be,  too,  that 
Miss  Patty  did  not  feel  herself  neglected,  or  did  not  caro 
about  attention.  Perhaps  she  may  not  have  been  altogether 
unconscious  that  every  least  motion  and  word  of  hers  was 
noticed,  even  when  the  game  was  at  its  keenest.  At  any  rate, 
it  was  clear  enough  that  she  and  Tom  were  on  the  best  terms, 
though  she  always  took  her  amit's  part  vehemently  in  any 
little  dispute  which  arose,  and  sometimes  even  came  to  the 
rescue  at  the  end,  and  recaptured  the  vanished  sixpences  out 
of  the  wrongful  grasp  which  he  generally  laid  on  thom  the 
moment  the  old  lady  held  out  her  hand  and  prono;inced  the 
word  "  game."  One  knows  that  size  has  little  to  do  with 
strength,  or  one  might  have  wondered  that  her  little  hands 
sliould  have  been  able  to  open  his  fingers  so  surely  one  by 
one,  though  he  seemed  to  do  all  he  could  to  keep  them  shut. 
Eut,  after  all,  if  he  really  thought  he  had  a  right  to  the 
money,  he  had  always  time  to  put  it  in  his  pocket  at  once, 


138  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFORD. 

instead  of  keeping  his  clenched  hand  on  the  table,  and 
arguing  about  it  till  she  had  time  to  get  up  'to  the  succour 
of  her  aunt. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE    FIRST   BUMP. 

"What's  the  time,  Smith  1" 

"  Half-past  three,  old  fellow,"  answered  Diogenes,  looking 
at  his  watch. 

"  I  never  knew  a  day  go  so  slowly,"  said  Tom  ;  "  isn't  it 
time  to  go  down  to  thu  boats  1 " 

"  Not  by  two  hours  and  more,  old  fellow — can't  you  take 
a  book,  or  something  to  keep  you  quiet  1  You  won't  be  fit 
for  anything  by  six  o'clock,  if  you  go  on  worrying  like 
this."  And  so  Diogenes  turned  himself  to  his  flute,  and 
blew  away  to  all  appearances  as  composedly  as  if  it  had 
been  the  first  week  of  term,  though,  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  it  was  all  he  could  do  not  to  get  up  and  wander  about 
in  a  feverish  and  distracted  state,  for  Tom's  restlessness  in- 
fected him. 

Diogenes'  whole  heart  was  in  the  college  boat :  and  so, 
thougli  he  had  pulled  dozens  of  races  in  his  time,  he  was 
almost  as  nervous  as  a  fresliman  on  this  the  first  day  of  the 
races.  Tom,  all  unconscious  of  the  secret  discomposure  of  the 
other,  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  looked  at  him  with 
wonder  and  envy.  The  flute  went  "  toot,  toot,  toot,"  till  he 
could  stand  it  no  longer.  So  he  got  up  and  went  to  the 
window,  and,  leaning  out,  looked  up  and  down  the  street  for 
srme  minutes  in  a  purposeless  sort  of  fashion,  staring  hard  at 
everybody  and  everything,  but  unconscious  all  the  time  that 
he  was  doing  so.  He  would  not  have  been  able,"  in  fact,  to 
answer  Diogenes  a  word,  had  that  worthy  inquired  of  him 
what  he  had  seen,  when  he  presently  drew  in  his  head  and 
returned  to  his  fidgety  ramblings  about  the  room. 

"  How  hot  the  sun  is  !  but  there's  a  stilf  breeze  from  tha 
south-east.  I  hope  it  will  go  down  before  the  evening,  don't 
you?" 

"  Yes,  this  wind  will  make  it  very  rough  below  the  Gut. 
!Mind  you  feather  liigh  now  at  starting." 

"  I  hope  to  goodness  I  sha'n't  catch  a  crab,"  said  Tom. 

"  Don't  think  about  it,  old  fellow ;  that's  your  best 
plan." 

"  But  I  can't  think  of  anything  else,"  said  Tom.     "  What 


THE   FIRST   BUMP.  130 

the  deuce  is  the  good  of  telling  a  fellow  not  to  think  ahout 
it?" 

Diogenes  apparently  had  nothing  particiilar  to  reply,  for  he 
put  his  tlute  to  his  month  again  ;  and  at  the  sound  of  the 
"  toot,  toot,"  Tom  caught  up  his  gown,  and  fled  away  uito 
the  quadrangle. 

The  crew  had  had  their  early  dinner  of  steaks  and  chops, 
stale  bread,  and  a  glass  and  a  half  of  old  beer  a  piece  at  two 
o'clock,  in  the  Captain's  rooms.  The  current  theory  of  train- 
ing at  that  time  Avas — as  much  meat  as  you  could  eat,  the 
more  underdone  the  better,  and  the  smallest  amount  of  drink 
upon  which  you  could  manage  to  live.  Two  pints  in  the 
tweuty-four  hours  was  all  that  most  boats'  crews  that  pre- 
tended to  train  at  all  were  allowed,  and  for  the  last  fortnight 
it  had  been  the  nominal  allowance  of  the  St.  Ambrose  crew. 
The  discomfort  of  such  a  diet  in  the  hot  summer  months, 
when  you  were  at  the  same  time  taking  regular  and  violent 
exercise,  was  something  very  serious.  Outraged  human 
nature  rebelled  against  it ;  and  though  they  did  not  admit  it 
in  public,  there  were  very  few  men  who  did  not  rush  to  their 
water-bottles  for  relief,  more  or  less  often,  according  to  the 
development  of  their  bumps  of  conscientiousness  and  ob- 
stinacy. To  keep  to  the  diet  at  all  strictly,  involved  a  very 
respectable  amount  of  physical  endurance.  Our  successors 
have  found  out  the  unwisdom  of  this,  as  of  other  old  super- 
stitions ;  and  that  in  order  to  get  a  man  into  training  for  a 
boat-race  now-a-days,  it  is  not  of  the  first  importance  to  keep 
him  in  a  constant  state  of  consuming  thirst,  and  the  restless- 
ness of  body  and  sharpness  of  temper  which  thirst  generally 
induces. 

Tom  appreciated  the  honour  of  being  in  the  boat  in  his 
first  year  so  keenly,  that  he  had  almost  managed  to  keep  to 
bis  training  allowance,  and  consequently,  now  that  the  eventful 
day  had  arrived,  was  in  a  most  uncomfortable  frame  of  body 
and  disagreeable  frame  of  mind. 

He  fled  away  from  Diogenes'  flute,  but  found  no  rest.  IIo 
tried  Drysdale.  That  hero  was  lying  on  his  back  on  his  sofa 
playing  with  Jack,  and  only  increased  Tom's  thirst  and  soured 
his  temper  by  the  viciousness  of  his  remarks  on  boating,  and 
everything  and  person  connected  therewith  ;  above  all,  on 
Miller,  who  had  just  come  up,  nad  steered  them  the  day 
before,  and  pronounced  the  crew  generally,  and  Drysdale  iu 
particular,  "  not  half  trained." 

Blake's  oak  was  sported,  as  usual.  Tom  looked  in  at  the 
Captain's  door,  but  found  liim  hard  at  work  rca<ling,  and  so 
carried  himself  off ;  and,  after  a  vain  hunt  after  others  of  tha 


140  TOxM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

crew,  and  even  trying  to  sit  down  and  read,  first  a  novel,  then 
a  play  of  Shakesf)eare,  with  no  success  whatever,  wandered 
away  out  of  the  college,  and  found  himself  in  five  minutes, 
by  a  natural  and  irresistible  attraction,  on  the  university  barge. 

There  were  half-a-dozen  men  or  so  reading  the  papers,  and 
a  group  or  two  discussing  the  coming  races.  Amongst  other 
things,  tlie  chances  of  St.  Ambrose's  making  a  bump  the  first 
niglit  were  weighed.  Every  one  joined  in  praising  the  stroke, 
but  there  were  great  doubts  whether  the  crew  could  live  up 
to  it.  Tom  carried  himself  on  to  the  top  of  the  barge  to  get 
out  of  hearing,  for  listening  made  his  heart  beat  and  liis 
throat  drier  than  ever.  He  stood  on  the  top  and  looiced  right 
away  down  to  t]ie  Gut,  the  strong  wind  blowing  liis  gown 
about.  Not  even  a  pair  oar  was  to  be  seen  ;  the  great  event 
of  the  evening  made  the  river  a  solitude  at  this  time  of  day. 
Only  one  or  two  skiffs  were  coming  home,  impelled  by  reading 
men,  who  took  their  constituti(jnals  on  the  water,  and  were 
coming  in  to  be  in  time  for  afternoon  chapel.  The  fastest 
and  best  of  these  soon  came  near  enough  for  Tom  to  recognise 
Hardy's  stroke  ;  so  he  left  the  barge  and  went  down  to  meet 
the  servitor  at  his  landing,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  St. 
Ambrose  (hessing-room. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  feel  for  the  race  to-night  ?"  said  Hardy, 
as  he  dried  his  neck  and  face,  which  he  had  been  sluicuig 
with  cold  water,  looking  as  hard  and  bright  as  a  racer  on 
Derby  day. 

"  Oh,  wretched !  I'm  afraid  T  shall  break  down,"  said  Tom, 
and  poured  out  some  of  his  doubts  and  miseries.  Hardy  soon 
comforted  him  greatly  ;  and  by  the  t:me  they  were  half  acro.^s 
Christchurch  meadow  he  was  quite  in  heait  again.  For  ho 
knew  how  well  Hardy  understood  rowing,  and  what  a  sound 
judge  he  was  ;  and  it  was  therefore  cheering  to  hear  that  he 
thought  they  were  certainly  the  second  best,  if  not  the  best 
boat  on  the  river  ;  and  that  they  would  be  sure  to  make  some 
bunijis  unless  they  had  accidents. 

'"  But  that's  just  what  I  fear  so,"  said  Tom.  "  I'm  afraid  [ 
shall  make  some  awful  blunder." 

"  Not  you  !  "  said  Hardy  ;  "  only  remember.  Don't  you 
fancy  you  can  pull  the  boat  by  yourself,  and  go  trying  to  do 
it.  That's  where  young  oars  iad.  If  you  keep  thorough 
good  time  you'll  be  pretty  sure  to  be  doing  your  share  of 
work.     Time  is  everything,  almost." 

"  I'll  be  sure  to  think  of  that,"  said  Tom  ;  and  they  entered 
St.  Ambrose  just  as  the  chapel  bell  was  going  down  ;  and  ho 
went  to  chapel  and  then  to  hall,  sitting  by  and  talking  for 
companionship  while  thB  rest  dined. 


THE   FIRST  BUMP.  141 

And  so  at  last  the  time  slipped  away,  and  the  Captain  and 
Miller  mustered  them  at  the  gates  and  walked  off  to  the 
boats.  A  dozen  other  crews  were  making  tlieir  way  in  the 
same  direction,  and  half  the  undergraduates  of  Oxford  streamed 
along  with  them.  The  banks  of  the  river  were  crowded  ;  and 
the  punts  plied  rapidly  backwards  and  forwards,  carrying  loads 
of  men  over  to  the  Iierkshii'e  side.  The  university  barge,  and  all 
the  other  barges,  were  decked  with  Hags,  and  the  band  was 
playing  lively  aii-s  as  the  St.  Ambrose  crew  reached  the  scene 
of  action. 

No  time  was  lost  in  the  dressing-room,  and  in  two  minutes 
they  were  all  standing  in  flannel  trousers  and  silk  jerseys  at 
the  landmg-place. 

"  You  had  better  keep  your  jackets  on."  said  the  Captain  ; 
"  we  sha'n't  be  off  yet." 

"  There  goes  Brazen-nose." 

"  They  look  like  work,  dun't  they  1 " 

"  The  black  and  yellow  seems  to  slip  along  so  fast.  They're 
no  end  of  good  colours.     1  wish  our  new  boat  was  black." 

"  Hang  her  coloui-s,  if  she's  only  stilf  in  the  back,  and 
don't  dip." 

"  "Well,  she  didn't  dip  yesterday  ;  at  least,  the  men  on  the 
bank  said  so." 

"  There  go  Baliol,  and  Oriel,  and  University." 

"  By  Jove,  we  shall  be  late  !     AVhere's  ]\liller?" 

"  In  the  shed,  getting  the  boat  out.  Look,  here's 
Exeter." 

The  talk  of  the  crew  was  silenced  for  the  moment  as  every 
man  looked  eagerly  at  the  Exeter  boat.  The  Captain  nodded 
to  .Jervis  with  a  grim  smile  as  tliey  jiaddlcd  gently  by. 

I'lieii  the  talk  began  again. 

'•  I  low  do  you  think  she  goes  V 

"  Not  so  badly.  They're  very  strong  in  the  middle  of  the 
boat." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it :  it's  all  lumber." 

"  You'll  see.  They're  better  trained  than  we  are.  They 
look  as  fine  as  stars." 

"  So  they  ought.  They've  pulled  seven  miles  to  our  Ave 
for  the  last  month,  I'm  sure." 

"  Then  wo  sha'n't  bump  them." 

"Why  not!" 

"  Don't  you  know  that  the  value  of  products  consists  in 
the  quantity  of  labour  which  goes  to  jiroduce  them  '?  Product 
jiace  over  course  from  Itlley  up.  Labour  expended,  Exeter,  7  ; 
St.  Ambrose,  5.  You  see  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things 
that  we  should  bump  them — Q.E.D." 


142  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFOKD. 

"  What  moonshine  !  as  if  ten  miles  behind  their  stroke 
are  worth  two  beliind  Jervis  !  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  it  isn't  my  moonshine ;  you  must  settle 
tlie  matter  with  the  philosoi^hers.  I  only  apply  a  universal 
law  to  a  particular  case." 

Ton',  unconscious  of  the  pearls  of  economic  lore  which 
were  oeing  poured  out  for  the  benefit  of  the  crew,  was  Avatching 
the  Exeter  eight  as  it  glided  oway  towards  the  Cherwell.  lie 
thought  they  seemed  to  keep  horribly  good  time. 

"lialloa,  Drysdale  !  look,  there's  Jack  going  across  in  one 
of  the  punts." 

"  Of  course  he  is.  You  don't  suppose  he  wouldn't  go  down 
to  see  the  race." 

"Why  won't  Miller  let  us  start?  Almost  all  the  boats 
are  off." 

"  There's  plenty  of  time.  We  may  just  as  well  be  up  here 
as  dawdling  about  the  bank  at  Iffley." 

"  We  sha'n't  go  down  till  the  last ;  Miller  never  lets  us  get 
out  down  below." 

"  Well,  come  ;  here's  the  boat,  at  last." 

The  new  boat  now  emerged  from  its  shod,  guided  steadily 
to  where  they  were  standing  by  Miller  and  a  waterman.  Then 
the  coxswain  got  out  and  called  for  bow,  who  stepped  forward. 

"  ]\Iind  how  yoTi  step  now,  there  are  no  bottom  boards, 
remember,"  said  Miller. 

"  Shall  I  take  my  jacket?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  had  better  all  go  down  in  jackets  in  this  wind. 
I've  sent  a  man  down  to  bring  them  back.      Now,  two." 

"  Aye,  aye  !  "  said  Drysdale,  stepping  forward.  Then  came 
Tom's  turn,  and  soon  the  boat  was  manned. 

"  Now,"  said  Miller,  taking  his  place,  "  are  all  your 
stretcliers  right  ?" 

"  I  should  like  a  little  more  grease  for  my  rollocks." 

"  I'm  taking  some  down  j  we"U  put  it  on  down  below.  Are 
you  all  right  1 " 

"  Yes." 

"Then  push  her  off — gently." 

The  St.  Ambrose  boat  was  almost  the  last,  so  there  were  no 
punts  in  the  way,  or  other  obstructions ;  and  they  swung 
steadily  down  past  the  university  barge,  the  top  of  which 
was  already  covered  vrith  spectators.  Every  man  in  the  boat 
felt  as  if  tlie  eyes  of  Europe  were  on  him,  and  pulled  in  his 
very  best  form.  Small  groups  of  gownsmen  were  scattered 
along  the  bank  in  Christchurch  meadow,  chiefly  dons,  who 
were  really  intere^sted  in  the  races,  but,  at  that  time  of  day, 
seldom  liked  to  display  enthusiasm  enough  to  cross  the  water 


THE   FIRST  BUMP.  143 

and  go  down  to  the  starting-place.  These  sombre  grouj^s  were 
lighted  up  here  and  there  by  the  dresses  of  a  few  ladies,  who 
were  walking  up  and  down,  and  watching  the  boats.  At  the 
mouth  of  the  Cherwell  were  moored  two  punts,  in  which 
reclined  at  their  ease  some  dozen  young  gentlemen,  smoking  ; 
several  of  these  were  friends  of  Drysdale's,  and  hailed  him  as 
the  boat  passed  them. 

"  What  a  fool  I  am  to  be  here  ! "  he  grumbled,  in  an 
under  tone,  casting  an  envious  glance  at  the  punts  in  their 
comfortable  berth,  up  under  the  banks,  and  out  of  the  wind. 
"  I  say,  Bro^vn,  don't  you  wish  we  were  well  past  this  on  the 
way  up?" 

"  Silence  in  the  bows  !"  shouted  IMiller. 

"You  devil,  how  I  hate  you!"  growled  Drysdale,  half  in 
jest  and  half  in  earnest,  as  they  sped  along  under  the  willows. 

Tom  got  more  comfortable  at  every  stroke,  and  by  the  time 
they  reached  the  Gut  began  to  hope  that  he  should  not  have 
a  fit,  or  lose  all  his  strength  just  at  the  start,  or  cut  a  crab, 
or  come  to  some  other  unutterable  grief,  the  fear  of  which 
had  been  haunting  him  all  day. 

"  Here  they  are  at  last ! — come  along  now — keep  up  with 
them,"  said  Hardy  to  Grey,  as  the  boat  neared  the  Gut ;  and 
the  two  trotted  along  downwards,  Hardy  watching  the  crew, 
and  Grey  watching  him. 

"  Hardy,  how  eager  you  look  !  " 

"  I'd  give  twenty  pounds  to  be  going  to  pull  in  the  race." 

Grey  shambled  on  in  silence  by  the  side  of  his  big  friend, 
and  wished  he  could  understand  what  it  was  that  moved 
him  so. 

As  the  boat  shot  into  the  Gut  from  under  the  cover  of  the 
Oxfordshire  bank,  the  wind  caught  the  bows. 

"  Feather  high,  now,"  shouted  Miller ;  and  then  added  in 
a  low  voice  to  the  Captain,  "  It  will  be  ticklish  work,  starting 
in  this  wind." 

"  Just  as  bad  for  all  the  other  boats,"  answered  the  Captain. 

"  Well  said,  old  philosopher  ! "  said  Miller.  "  It's  a  comfort 
to  steer  you  ;  you  never  make  a  fellow  nervous.  I  wonder 
if  you  ever  felt  nervous  yourself,  now?" 

"  Can't  say,"  said  the  Captain,  "  Here's  our  post ;  we  may 
as  well  turn." 

"  Easy,  bow  side — now  two  and  four,  pull  her  round — back 
water,  seven  and  five  !"  shouted  the  coxswain  ;  and  the  boat's 
head  swung  round,  and  two  or  three  strokes  took  her  into  the 
bank. 

Jack  instantly  made  a  convulsive  attempt  to  board,  but  was 
sternly  repulsed,  and  tumbled  backwards  into  the  watiy. 


14.4  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFORD. 

Hark  ! — the  first  gun.  The  report  sent  Tom's  heart  into 
his  mouth  again.  Several  of  the  boats  pushed  oiT  at  ouco  into 
tlie  stream  ;  and  the  crowds  of  men  on  the  bank  began  to  bo 
agitated,  as  it  were,  by  the  sliadow  of  the  coming  excitement. 
Tlic  St.  Ambrose  crew  fingered  their  oars,  put  a  last  dash  of 
grease  on  their  rollocks,  and  settled  their  feet  against  the 
stretchers. 

"  Shall  we  push  her  off?"  asked  "bow." 

"  No,  I  can  give  you  auotJier  minute,"  sa'*d  ^Rfillcr,  who  was 
sitting,  watcli  in  hand,  in  the  stern,  "  on!}'  be  smart  when  1 
give  the  word." 

The  Captain  turned  on  his  seat,  and  looked  up  the  boat. 
His  face  was  quiet,  but  full  of  confidence,  which  seemed  to 
pass  from  him  into  the  crew.  Tom  felt  calmer  and  stronger, 
as  he  met  his  eye.  "  Kow  mind,  boys,  don't  quicken,"  he 
eaid,  cheerily ;  "  four  short  strokes,  to  get  way  on  her,  and 
then  steady.     Here,  pass  up  the  lemon." 

And  he  took  a  sliced  lemon  out  of  his  pocket,  put  a  small 
piece  into  his  own  mouth,  and  then  handed  it  to  IJlake,  who 
followed  his  example,  and  passed  it  on.  Eacli  man  took  a 
piece  ;  and  just  as  "bow"  had  secured  the  end,  JNliller  calk-d 
out — 

"  Now,  jaclvcts  off,  and  get  her  head  out  steadily." 

The  jackets  were  thrown  on  slioie,  and  gathered  up  by  the 
boatmen  m  attendance.  The  crew  poised  their  oars,  No.  '2 
pushing  out  her  liead,  and  the  Captain  doing  the  same  for  the 
Jitern.      ]\Iiller  took  the  starting-rope  in  his  hand. 

"  llow  tlie  wind  catches  her  stern,"  he  said  ;  "  here,  pay 
out  the  rope  one  of  you.  No,  not  you — some  fellow  witli  a 
strong  hand.  Yes,  you'll  do,"  he  went  on,  as  Hardy  stepped 
down  the  bank  and  took  hold  of  the  rope  ;  "  let  me  have  it 
foot  by  foot  as  I  want  it.  Not  too  quick  ;  make  the  most  of 
it — that'll  do.  Two  and  three  just  dip  your  oars  in  to  givo 
her  way." 

The  rope  paid  out  steadily,  and  the  boat  settled  to  her 
place.  ]jut  now  the  wind  rose  again,  and  the  stern  drifted 
towards  the  bank. 

"  You  mtist  back  her  a  bit,  IMiller,  and  keep  her  a  little 
further  out,  or  our  oars  on  stroke  side  will  catch  the  bank." 

"  So  I  see  ;  curse  the  wind.  Back  her,  one  stroke  all. 
Back  her,  I  say!"  shouted  Miller. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  get  a  crew  to  back  her  an  inch  just 
now,  particulaily  as  there  are  in  lier  two  men  who  have  never 
rowed  a  race  before,  except  in  the  torpids,  and  one  who  ha.^ 
never  rowed  a  race  in  his  life. 

However,  back  she  comes ;  the  starting  rope  slackens  in 


THE    FIRST    BUMP.  \A5 

^[iller's  left  hand,  and  the  stroke,  unshipping  liis  oar,  pushes 
the  stern  gently  out  again. 

There  goes  the  second  gun  !  one  short  minute  more,  and  wo 
are  otf.  Short  minute,  indeed  !  you  wouldn't  say  so  if  you 
were  in  tlie  boat,  with  your  heart  in  your  mouth,  and  trem- 
bling all  over  like  a  man  with  the  palsy.  Those  sixty  seconds 
before  the  starting  gun  in  your  iirst  race — why,  they  are  a 
little  life-time. 

"  By  Jove,  we  are  drifting  in  again,"  said  jMiller,  in  horror. 
The  Captain  looked  grim,  but  said  notliing  ;  it  was  too  late 
now  for  him  to  be  unsliipping  again.  "  Here,  catch  hold  of 
the  long  boat-hook,  and  fend  her  off." 

Hardy,  to  whom  this  was  addressed,  seized  the  boat-hook, 
and,  standing  with  one  foot  in  the  water,  pressed  the  end  of 
the  boat-hook  against  the  gunwale,  at  the  full  stretch  of  his 
arm,  and  so,  by  main  force,  kept  the  stern  out.  There  was 
just  room  for  stroke  oars  to  dip,  and  that  was  all.  The 
starting  rope  was  as  taut  as  a  harp-string ;  will  Miller's  left 
hand  hold  out  ? 

It  is  an  awful  moment.  But  the  coxswain,  though  almost 
dragged  backwards  off  his  seat,  is  equal  to  the  occasion.  He 
hohls  his  watch  in  his  right  hand  with  the  tiller  rope. 

*'  Eight  seconds  more  only.  Look  out  for  the  flash.  Ee- 
member,  all  eyes  in  the  boat." 

There  it  comes,  at  last — the  flash  of  the  starting  gun. 
Long  before  the  sound  of  the  report  can  roll  up  the  river,  the 
whole  pent-up  Hfe  and  energy  which  has  been  field  in  leasli, 
as  it  were,  for  the  last  six  minutes,  is  let  loose,  and  breaks 
away  with  a  bound  and  a  dasli  which  he  who  fias  felt  it  wifl 
remember  for  his  life,  but  the  lilce  of  which,  will  he  ever  feel 
again]  The  starting  ropes  drop  from  the  coxswains'  hands, 
the  oars  flash  into  the  water,  and  gleam  on  the  feather,  the 
epray  flies  from  them,  and  the  boats  leap  forward. 

The  crowds  on  the  bank  scatter,  and  rush  along,  each  keep- 
ing as  near  as  it  may  be  to  its  own  boat.  Some  of  the  men  on 
the  towing  path,  some  on  the  very  edge  of,  often  in,  the 
water — some  sliglitly  in  advance,  as  if  they  could  help  to  drag 
their  boat  forward — some  behind,  wliere  they  can  see  tlie 
pulling  better — but  all  at  full  speed,  in  wild  excitement,  and 
shouting  at  the  top  of  their  voices  to  those  on  whom  the 
honour  of  the  college  is  laid. 

"  Well  pulled,  all ! "  "  Pick  her  up  there,  five  !  " 
"  You're  gaining,  every  stroke  !  "  "  Time  in  the  bows  !  " 
"  Bravo,  St.  Ambrose  !  " 

On  they  rushed  by  the  side  of  the  boais,  jostling  one 
another,  stumbhug,  struggling,  and  panting  along. 


146  Tnai    BiiOWN  AT   OXFOK'.). 

For  a  qiinrter  of  a  mile  along  the  hank  the  glorious  mad- 
dening hurly-hurly  extends,  and  rolls  np  the  side  of  the  stream. 

For  the  first  ten  strokes  Tom  was  in  too  great  fear  of 
making  a  mistake  to  feel  or  hear  or  see.  His  whole  soul  was 
glued  to  the  back  of  the  man  before  him,  his  one  thought  to 
keep  time,  and  get  his  strength  into  the  stroke.  But  as  the 
crew  settled  down  into  the  well-known  long  sweep,  what 
we  may  call  consciousness  returned  ;  and  while  every  muscle 
in  his  body  was  straining,  and  his  chest  heaved,  and  his  heart 
leapt,  every  nerve  seemed  to  be  gathering  new  life,  and  his 
senses  to  wake  into  unwonted  acuteness.  He  caught  the 
scent  of  the  wild  thyme  in  the  air,  and  found  room  in  his 
brain  to  wonder  how  it  could  have  got  there,  as  he  had  never 
seen  the  plaiit  near  the  river,  or  smelt  it  before.  Though  liis 
eye  never  wandered  from  the  back  of  Diogenes,  he  seemed  to 
see  <all  things  at  once.  The  boat  h)ehind,  which  seemed  to  bo 
gaining — it  was  all  he  could  do  to  prevent  himself  from 
quickening  on  the  stroke  as  he  fancied  that — the  eager  face  of 
!Millcr,  with  his  compressed  lips,  and  eyes  fixed  so  earnestly 
ahead  that  Tom  could  abuost  feel  the  glance  passing  over 
his  right  shoulder  ;  the  flying  baidcs  and  the  shoiiting  crowd  ; 
see  them  with  his  bodily  eyes  he  could  not,  but  he  knew 
ncA'ertheless  that  Grey  had  been  upset  and  nearly  rolled  down 
the  bank  into  the  water  in  the  first  hundred  yards,  that  Jack 
was  bounding  and  scrambling  and  barking  along  by  the  veiy 
edge  of  the  stream  ;  above  all,  he  was  just  as  well  aware  as 
if  he  had  been  looking  at  it,  of  a  stalwart  form  in  ^ap 
and  gown,  bounding  along,  brandishing  the  long  boat-hook, 
and  always  keeping  JTist  opjiosite  the  boat;  and  amid  all  the 
T'a1)el  of  voices,  and  the  dash  and  pulse  of  the  stroke,  and 
the  labouring  of  his  own  breathing,  he  heard  Hardy's  voice 
coming  to  him  again  and  again,  and  clear  as  if  there  had  been 
no  other  sound  in  the  air,  "  Steady,  two !  steady  !  well 
pulled !  steady,  steady !  "  The  voice  seemed  to  give  him 
strength  and  keep  him  to  his  work.  And  what  work  it  was  ! 
he  had  had  many  a  hard  pull  in  the  last  six  weeks,  but 
**  never  aught  like  this." 

Eut  it  can't  last  for  ever  ;  men's  muscles  are  not  steel. 
or  their  lungs  bull's  hide,  and  hearts  can't  go  on  pumping 
a  hundred  miles  an  hour  long  without  bursting.  The 
St.  Ambrose's  boat  is  well  away  from  the  boat  behind,  there  is 
a  great  gap  between  the  accompanying  crowds  ;  and  now,  as 
they  near  the  Gut,  she  hangs  for  a  moment  or  two  in  hand, 
though  the  roar  from  the  bank  grows  louder  and  louder,  and 
Tom  is  already  aware  that  the  St.  Ambrose  crowd  is  melting 
into  the  one  ahead  of  them. 


TiIK    FIRST    BUMP.  147 

"  We  must  be  close  to  Exeter  !  "  The  thought  flaslies  into 
him,  and  it  would  seem  into  the  rest  of  the  crew  at  the  same 
moment.  For,  all  at  once,  the  strain  seems  taken  off  tln'ir 
arms  again  ;  there  is  no  more  drag  ;  she  springs  to  the  stroke 
as  she  did  at  the  start  ;  antl  Miller's  face,  which  liad  darkened 
for  a  few  seconds,  lightens  up  again. 

jMiller's  face  and  attitude  are  a  study.  Coded  up  into  the 
smallest  possd)le  space,  his  chin  almost  resting  on  his  knees, 
his  hands  close  to  his  sides,  firndy  but  lightly  feeling  the 
rudder,  as  a  good  horseman  handles  the  mouth  of  a  free- 
going  hunter, — if  a  coxswain  could  make  a  bump  by  his  own 
exertions,  surely  he  will  do  it.  No  sudden  jerks  of  the  St. 
Audn'ose  rudder  will  you  see,  watch  as  you  will  from  the 
bank  ;  the  boat  never  hangs  through  fault  of  his,  but  easily 
and  gracefully  rounds  every  point.  "  You're  gaining  !  you're 
gaining!"  he  now  and  then  mutters  to  the  Captain,  who 
responds  with  a  ^vink,  keeping  his  breath  for  other  matters. 
Isn't  he  grand,  the  Captain,  as  he  comes  forward  like  Kght- 
ning,  stroke  after  stroke,  liis  back  flat,  his  teeth  set,  his 
whole  frame  working  from  the  hips  with  the  regularity  of  a 
machine  t  As  the  space  still  narrows,  the  eyes  of  the  fiery 
little  coxswain  flash  with  excitement,  but  he  is  far  too  good  a 
judge  to  hurry  the  final  effort  before  the  victory  is  safe  in  his 
grasp. 

The  two  crowds  are  mingled  now,  and  no  mistake  ;  and 
the  shouts  come  all  in  a  heap  over  the  water.  "  Now,  St. 
Ambrose,  six  strokes  more."  "Now,  Exeter,  you're  gaining  ; 
pick  her  up."  "Mind  the  Gut,  Exeter."  "Bravo,  St.  Am- 
brose." The  water  rushes  by,  still  edying  from  the  strokes 
of  the  boat  ahead.  Tom  fancies  now  he  can  hear  their  oars 
and  the  workings  of  their  rudder,  and  the  voice  of  their  cox- 
swain. In  another  moment  both  boats  arc  in  the  Gut,  ami  a 
perfect  storm  of  shouts  reaches  them  from  the  crowd,  as  it 
rushes  madly  off  to  the  left  to  the  foot-bridge,  amid.st  which 
"  Oh,  well  steered,  well  steered,  St.  Ambrose  !  "  is  the  pre- 
vailing cry.  Then  ]\Iiller,  motioidess-  as  a  statue  till  now, 
lifts  his  right  hand  and  whirls  the  tassel  round  his  head  : 
"  Give  it  her  now,  boys  ;  six  strokes  and  we  are  into  them." 
Old  Jervis  lays  down  that  great  broad  back,  and  lashes  his 
oar  through  the  water  with  the  might  of  a  giant,  the  crew 
catch  him  up  in  another  stroke,  the  tight  new  boat  answers 
to  the  spurt,  and  Tom  feels  a  little  shock  behind  him  and 
then  a  grating  sound,  as  Miller  shouts,  "  Unship  oars  bow 
and  three,"  and  the  nose  of  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  glides 
quietly  up  the  side  of  the  Exeter,  till  it  touches  theii* 
stroke  oar. 

T.    9 


1-iH  TOM    BIIOWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"  Take  care  Avhere  you're  coining  to."  It  is  the  coxswain 
of  the  humped  boat  who  speaks. 

Tom,  looking  round,  fmds  himself  Avithin  a  foot  or  two  of 
him  ;  and,  being  utterly  unable  to  contain  his  joy,  and  yet 
unwilling  to  exhibit  it  before  the  eyes  of  a  gallant  rival, 
turns  away  towards  the  shore,  and  begins  telegraphing  to 
Hardy. 

"  Now  then,  what  are  you  at  there  in  the  bows  1  Cast  her 
oiT  quick.  Come,  look  alive  !  Push  across  at  once  out  of  the 
way  of  the  other  boats." 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Jervis,"  says  the  Exeter  stroke,  as  the 
St.  Ambrose  boat  shoots  past  him.  "  Do  it  again  next  race 
and  I  sha'n't  care." 

"  We  were  within  three  lengths  of  Brazen-nose  when  wo 
bumped,"  says  the  all-ubscrvant  Miller  in  a  low  voice. 

"  All  right,"  answers  the  Captain  ;  "  Erazen-nose  isn't  so 
strong  as  usual.  We  sha'n't  have  much  trouble  there,  but  a 
tough  job  up  above,  I  take  it." 

"  Brazen-nose  was  better  steered  than  Exeter." 

"They  muffed  it  in  the  Gut,  eh  1 "  said  the  Captain.  "I 
thouglit  so  by  the  shouts." 

"  Yes,  we  were  pressing  them  a  little  down  below,  and  their 
coxswain  kept  looking  over  his  shoidder.  He  was  in  the  Gut 
before  he  knew  it,  and  liad  to  pull  his  left  hand  hard  or  they 
would  have  fouled  the  Oxfordshire  corner.  That  stopped 
their  way,  and  in  we  went." 

"  Bravo  ;  and  how  well  we  started  too." 

"Yes,  thanks  to  that  f lardy.  It  was  touch  and  go 
though  ;  I  couldn't  have  held  the  rope  two  seconds  more." 

"  How  did  our  fellows  work  ;  she  dragged  a  good  deal 
below  the  Gut." 

Miller  looks  somewhat  serious,  but  even  he  cannot  be  find- 
ing fault  just  now.  For  the  first  step  is  gained,  the  first 
victoiy  won  ;  and,  as  Homer  sometimes  nods,  so  Miller  re- 
laxes the  sternness  of  his  rule.  The  crew,  as  soon  as  they 
have  found  their  voices  again,  laugh  and  talk,  and  answer  the 
congi'atulations  of  their  friends,  as  the  boat  slips  along  close 
to  the  towing-path  on  the  Berks  side,  "  easy  all,"  almost  keep- 
ing pace  nevertheless  with  the  lower  boats,  which  are  racing 
up  under  the  willows  on  the  Oxfordshire  side.  Jack,  after 
one  or  two  feints,  makes  a  frantic  bound  into  the  water,  and 
is  hauled  dripping  into  the  boat  by  Drysdale,  unchid  by 
Miller,  but  to  the  intense  disgust  of  Diogenes,  whose  panta- 
loons and  principles  are  alike  outraged  by  the  proceeding. 
He — the  Cato  of  tiio  oar — scorns  to  relax  the  strictness  of  his 
oude  even  after  victory  won.     Neither  word  nor  look  does  he 


TUE   FIRST   BUMP.  149 

cast  to  the  exulting  St.  Ambrosians  on  the  bank  ;  a  tAviiiklo 
in  his  eye,  and  a  subdued  chuckle  or  two,  alone  betray  th;it 
though  an  oarsman  he  is  mortal.  Already  he  revolves  in  his 
mind  the  project  of  an  early  walk  under  a  few  pea-coats,  not 
being  quite  satisfied  (conscientious  old  boy  ! )  that  he  tried  his 
stretcher  enough  in  that  linal  spurt,  and  thinking  that  there 
must  be  an  extra  pound  of  flesh  on  him  somewhere  or  other 
which  did  the  mischief. 

"I  say,  Brown,"  .said  Drysdale,  "how  do  you  feel  V 

"  All  right,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  never  felt  jollier  in  my  life." 

"By  Jove,  though,  it  was  an  awful  grind;  didn't  you  wish 
yourself  well  out  of  it  below  the  Gut?" 

"No,  nor  you  either." 

"  Didn't  I  ?  I  was  awfully  baked,  my  thi'oat  is  like  a  lime- 
kiln yet.     What  did  you  think  about  ?  " 

"  Well,  about  keeping  time,  I  think,"  said  Tom,  laughing, 
"but  I  can't  remember  much." 

"  I  only  kept  on  by  thinking  how  I  hated  those  devils  in 
the  Exeter  boat,  and  how  done  up  they  must  be,  and  hoping 
their  No.  2  felt  like  having  a  fit." 

At  this  moment  they  came  opposite  the  Cherwell.  The 
leading  boat  was  just  passing  the  winning-post,  off  the 
university  barge,  and  the  band  struck  up  the  "  Conquering 
Hero,"  with  a  crash.  And  while  a  mighty  sound  of  shouts;, 
murmurs,  and  music  Avent  up  into  the  evening  skj^  ]\lillcr 
shook  the  tiller-ropes  again,  the  Captain  shouted,  "  Now  then, 
pick  her  up,"  and  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  shot  up  between  the 
swarming  banks  at  racing  pace  to  her  landuig-jjlace,  the  lion 
of  the  evening. 

Dear  readers  of  the  gentler  sex !  you,  I  know,  will  pardon 
the  enthusiasm  which  stirs  our  pulses,  now  in  sober  middle 
age,  as  we  call  up  again  the  memories  of  this  the  most  exciting 
sport  of  ox;r  boyhood  (for  we  were  bat  boys  then,  after  all). 
You  will  pardon,  though  I  fear  hopelessly  unable  to  under- 
stimd,  the  above  sketch  ;  your  sons  and  brothers  will  tell  you 
it  could  not  have  been  made  less  technical. 

For  you,  male  readers,  who  have  never  haaidled  an  oar, — 
what  shall  I  say  to  you  ?  You  at  least,  I  hope,  in  some  way — 
in  other  contests  of  one  kind  or  another — have  felt  as  we  felt, 
and  have  striven  as  we  strove.  You  ought  to  vmderstand  and 
sympathize  with  us  in  all  our  boating  memories.  Oh,  hoAV 
fresh  and  sweet  they  are !  Above  all,  that  one  of  the  gay 
little  Henley  town,  the  carriage-crowded  bridge,  the  noble 
river  reach,  the  giant  poplars,  which  mark  the  critical  point 
of  the  course — the  roaring  column  of  "  undergrads,"  light 
blue  and  dark  purple,  Caaitab  and  Oxonian,  alike  and  yet  how 


150  TOM   BROWN   AT    OXFOKD. 

different,  —hurling  along  together,  and  hiding  the  towing- 
path — the  clang  of  Henley  church-bells — the  cheering,  the 
waving  of  embroidered  handkerchiefs,  and  glancing  of  bright 
eyes,  the  ill-concealed  pride  of  fathers,  the  open  delight  and 
exultation  of  mothers  and  sisters — the  levee  in  the  town-hall 
wlien  the  race  was  rowed,  the  great  cup  full  of  chamj>agne  (iun- 
cluimpagne,  but  we  were  not  critical) — the  chojjs,  the  steaks, 
the  bitter  beer — but  we  run  into  anti-climax — remember, 
we  were  boys  then,  and  bear  with  us  if  you  cannot  sympathize. 

And  you,  old  companions,  Bpavirai,  benchers  (of  the  gallant 
eight-oar),  now  seldom  met,  but  never-forgotten,  lairds,  squires, 
soldiers,  merchants,  lawyers,  grave  J.P.'s,  graver  clergymen, 
gravest  bishops  (for  of  two  bishops  at  least  does  our  brother- 
hood boast),  I  turn  for  a  moment,  from  my  task,  to  reach  to 
you  tlie  right  hand  of  fellowship  from  these  pages,  and  empty 
the  solemn  pewter — trophy  of  hard-won  victory — to  your 
health  and  happiness. 

Surely  none  the  Avorse  Christians  and  citizens  are  ye  for 
youi-  involuntary  failiug  of  muscularity  ! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A    CHANGE    IN    THE    CREW,    AND    WHAT    CAME    OF   IT. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  that  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  made  the  first 
bump,  described  in  our  last  chapter.  On  the  next  Saturday, 
the  day -week  after  tlie  first  success,  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  our  hero  was  at  the  door  of  Hardy's  rooms.  He 
just  stopped  for  one  moment  outside,  with  his  hand  on  the 
lock,  looking  a  little  puzzled,  but  withal  pleased,  and  then 
opened  the  door  and  entered.  The  little  estrangement  which 
there  had  been  between  them  for  some  weeks,  had  passed 
away  since  the  races  had  begun.  Hardy  had  thrown  himself 
into  the  spirit  of  them  so  thoroughly,  that  he  had  not  only 
regained  all  his  hold  on  Tom,  but  had  warmed  up  the  whole 
crew  in  his  favour,  and  had  mollified  the  martinet  IMUler 
himself.  It  was  he  who  had  managed  the  starting-rope  in 
every  race,  and  Ids  voice  from  the  towing-path  had  come  to 
be  looked  upon  as  a  safe  guide  for  clapping  on  or  rowing 
steady.  Even  ^filler,  autocrat  as  he  was,  had  come  to  listen 
for  it,  in  confirmation  of  his  own  judgment,  before  calling  on 
the  crew  for  the  final  effort. 

So  Tom  had  recovered  his  old  footing  in  the  servitor's 
rooms  ;  and  when  he  entered  on  the  night  in  question  did  so 
with  the  bearing  of  an  iatimate  friend.    Hardy  s  lea  commons 


A   CHANGE   IN   TUE   CKEW.  151 

wore  on  one  end  ol  the  table  as  usual,  and  lie  was  sitting  at 
the  other  poring  over  a  book.  Tom  marched  straight  up  tc 
lam,  and  leant  over  his  shoulder. 

"What,  hero  you  are  at  the  perpetual  grind,"  he  said. 
"  Come,  shut  up,  and  give  me  some  tea ;  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

Hardy  looked  up  with  a  grmi  smile. 

"  Are  you  up  to  a  cup  of  tea  1 "  he  said ;  "  look  here, 
1  was  just  reminded  of  you  fellows  Shah  I  construe  for 
you?" 

He  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  ojjen  page  of  the  book  he 
was  reading.  It  was  the  Knights  of  Aristophanes,  and  Turn, 
leaning  over  his  shoulder,  read, — 

Kara  Kadit,(jv  fiaXaKU)^  Iva  fxrj  Tpi^r><i  T})v  eV  SaXa/xii't,  &C 

After  meditating  a  moment,  he  burst  out,  "  You  hard-hearltsd 
old  ruffian !     I  come  here  for  sympathy,  and  the  hrst   thing 
you  do  is  to  poke  fun  at  me  out  of  your  wretched  classics 
I've  a  good  mind  to  clear  out,  and  not  do  my  errand." 

"What's  a  man  to  do  f  said  Hardy.  "I  hold  that  it's 
always  better  to  laugh  at  fortune.  What's  tlie  use  of  re- 
pining? You  have  done  famously,  and  second  is  a  cai>ital 
place  on  the  river." 

"Second  be  hanged!"  said  Tom.  "We  mean  to  be 
first." 

"Well,  I  hope  we  may!"  said  Hardy.  "T  can  tell  you 
nobody  felt  it  more  tlian  I — not  even  old  Diogenes — when 
you  didn't  make  your  bump  to-night." 

"Now  you  talk  like  a  man,  and  a  Saint  Ambrosian,"  said 
Tom.  "  But  what  do  you  thiiiJv  ?  Shall  we  ever  catch 
them?"  and,  so  saying,  he  retu'cd  to  a  chair  opi^ositc  the 
tea-things. 

"  Ho,"  said  Hardy ;  "  I  don't  think  we  ever  shall.  I'm 
very  sorry  to  say  it,  but  tliey  are  an  uncommonly  strong  lot, 
and  we  have  a  weak  place  or  two  in  our  crow.  I  don't  think 
we  can  do  more  than  we  did  to-night — at  least  with  tho 
present  crew." 

"  But  if  we  could  get  a  little  more  strength  we  might  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  Jervis's  stroke  is  worth  two  of  tlieira. 
A  very  little  more  powder  would  do  it." 

"  Then  we  must  liave  a  httle  more  powder." 

"  Ay,  but  how  are  we  to  get  it  ?  Who  can  you  put 
in?" 

"You!"  said  Tom,  sitting  up.  "There,  no>\',  that's  just 
what  I  am  come  about.  Drysilalo  is  to  go  out.  W^ill  you 
pull  next  race  1     Tliey  all  want  you  to  row." 


152  TOM    BKOTTN    AT    OXFOllD. 

"  Do  they  1 "  said  Uartly,  quietly  (l)ut  Tom  could  see  that 
his  eye  sparkled  at  the  notion,  though  he  was  too  praud  to 
shov/  how  much  he  was  pleased) ;  "  then  they  had  better 
come  and  ask  me  themselves." 

"  "Well,  you  cantankerous  old  party,  they're  coming,  I  can 
toll  you  ! "  said  Tom,  in  great  delight.  "  The  Captain  just 
sent  me  on  to  break  ground,  and  ■will  be  here  directly 
liimself.  I  say  now.  Hardy,"  he  went  on,  "  don't  you  say  no. 
I've  set  my  heart  upon  it.  I'm  sure  we  shall  bump  them  if 
you  pull." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Hard 3',  getting  up,  and  beginning 
to  make  tea,  to  conceal  the  excitement  ho  was  in  at  the  idea 
of  rowing  ;  "  you  see  Vn\  not  in  training." 

"  Gammon,"  said  Tom,  "you're  always  in  training,  and  you 
know  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Hardy,  "  I  can't  be  in  worse  than  Drysdale. 
Jle  has  been  of  no  use  above  the  Gut  this  last  tliree  nights." 

"  That's  just  what  Miller  says,"  said  Tom,  "and  here  comes 
the  Captain."  Tliere  was  a  knock  at  the  door  while  he  spoke, 
and  Jervis  and  IMiller  entered, 

Tom  was  in  a  dreadful  fidget  for  the  next  twenty  minutes, 
and  may  best  be  compared  to  an  enthusiastic  envoy  negotiating 
a  treaty,  and  suddenly  finduig  his  action  impeded  by  the 
arrival  of  his  principals.  Miller  was  very  civil,  but  not 
l)ressing  ;  he  seemed  to  have  come  more  with  a  view  of  talking 
over  the  present  state  of  things,  and  consulting  upon  them, 
than  of  enlisting  a  recruit.  Hardy  met  him  more  than  half- 
way, and  speculated  on  all  sorts  of  possible  issues,  without  a 
liint  of  volunteering  himself.  But  presently  Jervis,  who  did 
not  understand  finessing,  broke  in,  and  asked  Hardy,  point 
blank,  to  pull  in  the  next  I'ace ;  and  when  he  pleaded  want 
of  training,  overruled  him  at  once  by  saying  that  there  was 
no  better  training  than  sculling.  So  in  half  an  hour  all  was 
settled.  Hardy  was  to  pull  five  in  the  next  race,  Diogenes 
was  to  take  Blake's  place,  at  !N'o.  7,  and  Blake  to  take 
Drysdale's  oar  at  No.  2.  The  whole  crew  were  to  go  for  a 
long  training  walk  the  next  day,  Sunday,  in  the  afternoon ; 
to  go  doAvn  to  Abingdon  on  Monday,  just  to  get  into  swing 
in  their  new  places,  and  then  on  Tuesday  to  abide  the  fate  of 
war.  They  had  half  an  hour's  pleasant  talk  over  Hardy's  tea, 
and  then  separated. 

"  I  always  told  you  he  was  our  man,"  said  the  Captain  to 
Miller,  as  they  walked  together  to  the  gates ;  "  we  want 
strength,  and  he  is  as  strong  as  a  horse.  You  must  have 
soon  him  sculling  yourself.  There  isn't  his  match  on  the 
river  to  my  mind." 


A    CHANGE  IN  THE  CREW.  Iu3 

"Yos,  I  think  lie'll  do,"  replied  Miller;  "at  any  rate  lie 
can't  be  worse  than  Drysdale." 

As  for  Tom  and  Hardy,  it  may  safely  he  said  that  no  two 
men  in  Oxford  went  to  bed  in  better  spirits  that  Saturday 
night  than  tliey  two. 

And  now  to  explain  how  it  came  about  that  Hardy  waa 
wanted.  Fortune  had  smiled  upon  the  St.  Ambrosians  in 
the  two  races  which  succeeded  tlie  one  in  which  they  limi 
bamped  Exeter.  They  had  risen  two  more  places  w^ith  )ut  any 
very  great  trouble.  Of  course,  the  constituencies  on  the  banlc 
magnified  their  powers  and  doings.  There  never  was  such  a 
crew,  they  were  quite  safe  to  be  head  of  the  river,  nothing 
could  live  against  their  pace.  So  the  yoiuig  oars  in  the  boat 
swallowed  all  they  lieard,  thought  themselves  the  finest 
fellows  going,  took  less  and  less  pains  to  keep  up  their 
condition,  and  when  they  got  out  of  ear-shot  of  Jervis  and 
Diogenes,  were  ready  to  bet  two  to  one  that  they  would  bump 
Oriel  the  next  night,  and  keep  easily  head  of  the  river  for 
the  rest  of  the  races. 

Saturday  night  came,  and  brought  wdth  it  a  most  useful 
though  unpalatable  lesson  to  the  St.  Ambrosians.  The  Oriel 
boat  was  manned  chiefly  by  old  oavs,  seasoned  in  many  a 
race,  and  not  liable  to  jianic  when  hard  pressed.  They  had 
a  fair  though  not  a  first-rate  strolce,  and  a  good  coxswain  ; 
exj)erts  remarked  that  they  were  rather  too  heavy  for  their 
boat,  and  tliat  she  dipped  a  little  when  they  put  on  anytliing 
like  a  severe  spurt ;  but  on  the  whole  they  were  by  no  means 
the  sort  of  crew  you  could  just  run  into  hand  over  hand.  So 
Miller  and  Diogenes  preached,  and  so  the  Ambrosians  found 
out  to  their  cost. 

They  had  the  pace  of  the  other  boat,  and  gained  as  usual 
a  boat's  length  before  the  Gut ;  but,  first  those  two  fatal 
corners  were  passed,  and  then  other  well-remembered  spots 
where  former  bumps  had  been  made,  and  still  INIiller  made 
no  sign ;  on  the  contrary,  he  looked  gloomy  and  savage. 
The  St.  Ambrosian  shouts  from  the  shore  too  changed  from 
the  usual  exultant  peals  into  something  like  a  quaver  of 
consternation,  while  the  air  was  rent  with  the  name  and 
laudations  of  "  little  Oriel." 

Long  before  the  Cherwell  Drysdale  was  completely  baked 
(he  had  played  truant  the  day  before  and  dined  at  the  Weirs, 
where  ho  had  imbibed  much  dubious  hock),  but  he  from  obi 
habit  managed  to  keep  time.  Tom  and  the  other  young  oars 
got  flurried,  and  quickened  ;  the  boat  dragged,  there  was  no 
life  left  in  her,  and,  though  they  managed  just  to  hold  th'Mr 
liist  advantage,  could  not  put  her  a  foot  nearer  the  stuiu 


l')i  TOM    BKOWN    AT   OXFORD. 

of  the  Oriel  boat,  wliicli  glided  past  tlie  wiiming-post  a  cl.-^ar 
boat's  length  ahead  of  her  pursuers,  and  with  a  crew  inur.h 
less  distressed. 

Such  races  must  tell  on  strokes ;  and  even  Jervis,  whc  had 
pulled  magnificently  throughout,  was  very  much  done  at  the 
close,  and  leant  over  his  oar  with  a  swimming  in  his  heatl, 
and  an  approach  to  faintness,  and  was  scarcely  able  to  see  for 
a  minute  or  so.  Miller's  i:idignation  knew  uo  bounds,  but 
he  bottled  it  up  till  he  had  mtuueuvred  the  crew  into  their 
dressing-room  by  themselves,  Jei'vis  having  stoj)ped  below. 
Then  he  let  out,  and  did  not  s])are  them.  "  Tliey  would  kill 
their  captain,  whose  little  finger  was  worth  the  whole  of 
them  ;  they  were  disgracing  the  college  ;  three  or  four  of 
them  had  neither  heart,  head,  nor  i)luck."  They  all  felt  that 
this  was  unjust,  for  after  all  had  they  not  brought  the  boat 
up  to  the  second  place  1  Poor  Diogenes  sat  in  a  corner  and 
groaned  ;  he  forgot  to  prefix  "  old  fellow  "  to  the  few  obser- 
vations he  made.  Blake  had  great  dilficulty  in  adjusting  his 
necktie  before  the  glass  ;  he  merely  remarked  in  a  jiause  of 
the  objurgation,  "  In  faith,  coxswain,  these  be  very  bitter 
words."  Tom  and  most  of  the  others  were  too  much  out  of 
heart  to  resist ;  but  at  last  Drysdale  fired  up — 

"  You've  no  right  to  be  so  savage  that  1  can  see,"  he  said, 
suddenly  stopping  the  low  whistle  in  which  he  was  indulging, 
as  he  sat  on  the  corner  of  the  table;  "you  seem  to  think 
No.  2  the  weakest  out  of  several  weak  places  in  the  boat." 

"  Yes,  1  do,"  said  Miller. 

"Then  this  honourable  member,"  said  Drysdale,  getting  off 
the  table,  "  seeing  that  his  humble  ellorts  are  unappreciated, 
thinks  it  best  for  the  public  service  to  place  his  resignatiou 
in  the  hands  of  your  coxswainship." 

"  Which  my  coxswainship  is  graciously  jileased  to  accc]it," 
replied  jMiller. 

"  Hurrah  for  a  roomy  punt  and  a  soft  cushion  next  racing 
night — it's  almost  worth  while  to  have  been  rowing  all  this 
time,  to  realize  the  sensations  I  shall  feel  when  I  see  you 
fellows  passing  the  Cherwell  on  Tuesday." 

"  Suave  est,  it's  what  I'm  partial  to,  7nafi  magna,  in  the  last 
reach,  a  terra,  from  the  towing  path,  alterius  magnura  spectare 
laborem,  to  witness  the  tortures  of  you  wretched  beggars  in 
the  boat.  I'm  obliged  to  translate  for  Drysdale,  who  never 
learned  Latin,"  said  Blake,  finishing  his  tie  before  the  glass. 
There  was  an  awkward  silence.  Miller  ^\'as  chafing  inwardly 
and  running  over  in  his  mind  what  was  to  be  done  ;  and  no- 
body else  seemed  quite  to  luiow  what  ought  to  happen  next, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Jervis  came  in. 


A    CIIAKGE   IN    THE   CKEW.  155 

"  Congratulate  me,  my  Captain,"  said  Drysdale  :  "  T'lu  wlII 
out  of  it  at  last." 

Jervis  "  pished  and  pshaw'd  "  a  little  at  liearing  w-hat  had 
happened,  but  his  presence  acted  like  oil  on  the  waters.  'J'ho 
moment  that  the  resignation  was  named,  Tom's  thoughts  had 
turned  to  Hardy.  Now  was  the  time — he  had  such  conlidenee 
in  the  man,  that  the  idea  of  getting  liim  in  for  next  race 
entirely  changed  the  as])ect  of  affairs  to  him,  and  made  him 
feel  as  "bumptious"  again  as  he  had  done  in  the  morning. 
So  with  this  idea  in  his  head,  he  hung  about  till  the  Captain 
had  made  his  toilet,  and  joined  himself  to  liim  and  Miller  as 
thej'  walked  up. 

"  Well,  what  are  we  to  do  now  1 "  said  the  Captain. 

"That's  just  what  you  have  to  settle,"  said  JNliller;  "you 
have  been  up  all  the  term,  and  know  the  men's  }iulling  betlei 
than  I." 

"  I  suppose  we  must  press  somebody  from  the  torpid — let 
me  see,  tliere's  Burton." 

"  He  rolls  like  a  porpoise,"  interrupted  JNIiller,  positively  ; 
"  impossible." 

"  Stewart  might  do,  then." 

"  Never  kept  time  for  thi'ee  strokes  in  his  life,"  said 
Miller. 

"  Well,  there  are  no  better  men,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  Then  we  may  lay  our  account  to  stop])ing  where  wo  are, 
if  we  don't  even  lose  a  place,"  said  Miller. 

"  Dust  imto  (lust,  what  must  l>o,  must ; 

If  you  can't  get  ci-umb,  yuu'd  Lust  tat  cnist," 

said  the  Captain. 

"It's  all  very  well  talking  coolly  noAv,"  said  Miller,  "but 
you'll  kill  yourself  trying  to  bump,  and  there  are  three  mure 
nights." 

"  Hardy  would  row  if  you  asked  him,  I'm  sure,"  said  Tom. 

The  Captain  looked  at  Miller,  who  shook  his  head.  "  I 
don't  think  it,"  he  said  ;  I  take  him  to  be  a  shy  bird  that 
won't  coine  to  everybody's  whistle.  "We  might  have  had  him 
two  years  ago,  1  believe — I  wish  we  had." 

"  1  always  told  you  so,"  said  Jervis  ;  "  at  any  rate  let's  try 
hun.  He  can  but  say  no,  and  I  don't  think  he  will,  for  you 
see  he  has  been  at  the  starting-place  every  night,  and  as  keen 
as  a  freshman  all  the  time." 

"  I'lu  sure  he  won't,"  said  Tom ;  "  I  know  he  would  give 
anything  to  pull." 

"  You  had  better  go  to  his  rooms  and  sound  him,"  said  the 
Captain  ;  "  Miller  and  I  will  follow  in  half  an  hour."  ^\'e 
have  already  heard  how  Tom's  mission  prospered. 


156  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFORD. 

I'lic  next  day,  at  a  few  minutes  before  two  o'clock,  the 
St.  Ambrose  crew,  including  Hardy,  with  Miller  (who  wns  a 
desperate  and  indefatigahle  pedestrian)  for  leader,  crossed 
Magdalen  Ih'idge.  At  five  they  returned  to  college,  having 
done  a  little  over  fifteen  miles,  fair  heel  and  toe  walking  in 
the  interval.  The  afternoon  had  been  very  hot,  and  MiUer 
chuckled  to  the  Captain,  "  I  don't  think  there  will  be  much 
tiash  left  in  any  one  of  them  after  that.  That  fellow  Hardy 
is  as  fine  as  a  race-horse,  and,  did  you  see,  he  never  turned  a 
hair  all  the  way." 

The  crew  dis])ersed  to  their  rooms,  delighted  with  the  per- 
formance now  that  it  was  over,  and  feelhig  that  they  were 
much  the  better  for  it,  though  they  all  declared  it  had  been 
harder  work  than  any  race  they  had  yet  pulled.  It  would 
have  done  a  trainer's  heart  good  to  have  seen  them,  some 
twenty  minutes  afterwards,  dropping  into  hall  (where  they 
were  allowed  to  dine  on  Sundays  on  the  joint),  fresh  from 
cold  baths,  and  looking  ruddy  and  clear,  and  hard  enough  for 
anythijig. 

Again  on  Monday,  not  a  chance  was  lost.  The  St.  iVmbrose 
boat  started  soon  after  one  o'clock  for  Abingdon.  They  swung 
steadily  down  the  whole  way,  and  back  again  to  Sandford 
without  a  single  spurt ;  Miller  generally  standing  in  the  stern, 
and  preaching  above  all  things  steadiness  and  time.  From 
Sandford  up,  they  were  accompanied  by  half  a  dozen  men  or 
so,  who  ran  up  the  bank  watching  them.  The  struggle  for 
the  first  place  on  the  river  was  creating  great  exciteiuent  in 
the  rowing  world,  aud  these  were  some  of  the  most  keen  con- 
noisseurs, who,  having  heard  that  St.  Ambrose  had  changed 
a  man,  were  on  the  look-out  to  satisfy  themselves  as  to  how 
it  would  work.  Tlie  general  opinion  was  veering  round  in 
favour  of  Oriel ;  changes  so  late  in  the  races,  and  at  such  a 
critical  moment,  were  looked  upon  as  very  damaging. 

Foremost  amongst  the  runners  on  the  bank  was  a  wiry  dark 
man,  with  sanguine  complexion,  who  went  with  a  peculiar 
long,  low  stride,  keeping  liis  keen  eye  well  on  the  boat.  Just 
above  Kennington  Island,  Jervis,  noticing  this  particular 
spectator  for  the  first  time,  called  on  the  crew,  and,  quickening 
his  stroke,  took  them  up  the  reach  at  racing  j)ace.  As  they 
lay  in  Iffley  Lock  the  dark  man  appeared  above  them,  and 
exchanged  a  few  words,  and  a  good  deal  of  dumb  show,  with 
the  Caj^tain  and  Miller,  and  then  disappeared. 

From  Ifiley  up  they  went  steadily  again.  On  the  whole 
Miller  seemed  to  be  in  very  good  spirits  in  the  dressing-room  ; 
he  thought  the  boat  trimmed  better,  and  went  better  than 
she  had  ever  done  before,  and  complimented  PJake  jpartiou- 


CHANGE  IN   THE   CRKW.  157 

larly  for  the  ease  with  which  he  had  changed  sides.  They 
all  went  up  in  high  spirits,  calling  on  their  way  at  "  The 
Choughs"  for  one  glass  of  old  ale  round,  which  Miller  waa 
graciously  pleased  to  allow.  Tom  never  remembered  till  after 
they  were  out  again  that  Hardy  had  never  been  there  before, 
and  felt  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  but  it  soon  passed  off.  A 
moderate  dinner  and  early  to  bed  hnished  the  day,  and  JNIillcr 
was  justified  in  his  parting  remark  to  the  Captain,  "  Well, 
if  we  don't  win,  we  can  comfort  ourselves  that  we  hav'n't 
dropped  a  stitch  this  last  two  days,  at  any  rate." 

Then  the  eventful  day  arose  which  Tom,  and  many  another 
man,  felt  was  to  make  or  mar  St.  Ambrose.  It  was  a  glorious 
early-summer  day,  without  a  cloud,  scarcelj'^  a  breath  of  air 
stii-ring.  "  We  shall  have  a  fair  start  at  any  rate,"  was  the 
general  feeling.  We  have  already  seen  Avhat  a  throat-drying, 
nervous  bushaess,  the  morning  of  a  race-day  is,  and  must  not 
go  over  the  same  ground  more  than  we  can  help  ;  so  we  will 
imagine  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  down  at  the  starting-place,  lying 
close  to  the  towing-})ath,  just  before  the  first  gun. 

There  is  a  much  greater  crowd  than  usual  opposite  the 
two  lirst  boats.  By  this  time  most  of  the  other  boats  have 
found  their  places,  for  there  is  not  much  chance  of  anything 
very  exciting  down  below  ;  so,  besides  the  men  of  Oriel  and 
St.  Ambrose  (who  muster  to-night  of  all  sorts,  the  fastest  of 
the  fast  and  the  slowest  of  the  slow  having  hcen  by  this 
time  shamed  into  something  lilve  enthusiasm),  many  of  other 
colleges,  whose  boats  have  no  chance  of  bumping  or  being 
bumped,  flock  to  the  point  of  attraction. 

"  Do  you  make  out  what  the  change  is  1 "  says  a  hacker  of 
Oriel  to  his  friend  in  the  like  predicament. 

"  Yes,  they've  got  a  new  Ko.  5,  don't  you  see,  and,  l^y 
George,  I  don't  like  his  looks,"  answered  his  friend  ;  "awfully 
long  and  strong  in  the  arm,  and  well-ribbed  up.  A  deviliah 
awkward  customer.     I  shall  go  and  try  to  get  a  hedge." 

"  Pooh,"  says  the  other,  "  did  you  ever  know  one  man  win 
a  race  1 " 

"  Ay,  that  I  have,"  says  his  friend,  and  walks  off  towards 
the  Oriel  crowd  to  take  five  to  four  on  Oriel  in  half-sovereigns, 
if  he  can  get  it. 

ISoyr  their  dark  friend  of  yesterday  comes  up  at  a  trot,  and 
pulls  up  close  to  the  Captain,  with  whom  he  is  evidently  dear 
friends.  He  is  worth  looking  at,  being  coxswain  of  the  0.  U.  1>. 
the  best  steerer,  runner,  and  swimmer,  in  Oxford ;  amphibious 
himself  and  sprung  from  an  amphibious  race.  His  own  boat 
is  in  no  danger,  so  he  has  left  her  to  take  care  of  herself. 
He  is  on  the  look-out  for  recruits  for  tlio  University  croW; 


158  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFOKD. 

ami  no  recruiting  sergeant  has  a  sharper  eye  for  the  sort  of 
Btutf  he  requires. 

"  What's  his  namel"  he  says  in  a  low  tone  to  Jervis,  giving 
a  jerk  with  his  head  towards  Hardy.  "  Where  did  you  get 
himl" 

"  Hardy,"  answers  the  Captain,  in  the  same  tone  ;  "  it's  his 
fiist  night  m  the  boat." 

"  I  know  that,"  replies  the  coxswain ;  "  T  never  saw  him 
row  before  yesterday.  He's  the  fellow  Avho  sculls  in  that 
brown  skitf,  isn't  he  1 " 

"  Yes,  and  I  thinlc  he'll  do  ;  keep  your  eye  on  him." 

The  coxswain  nods  as  if  he  were  somewhat  of  the  same 
mind,  and  examines  Hardy  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur, 
pretty  nmch  as  the  judge  at  an  agricultural  show  looks  at  the 
prize  bull.  Hardy  is  tightening  the  strap  of  his  sti'etchor, 
and  all-unconscious  of  the  comjiliments  which  are  being  paid 
him.  Th-e  great  authority  seems  satisfied  with  his  inspection, 
giins,  rubs  his  hands,  and  trots  off  to  the  Oriel  boat  to  make 
comparisons. 

Just  as  the  first  gun  is  heard,  Grey  sidles  nervously  to  the 
front  of  the  crowd  as  if  he  were  doing  something  very 
audacious,  and  draws  PLirdy's  attention,  exclianging  synii)a- 
thizing  nods  with  him,  but  sapng  nothing,  ibr  he  knows  not 
what  to  say,  and  then  disap])C!iring  again  in  the  crowd. 

"  Hollo,  Prysdale,  is  that  you  ?  "  says  Blake,  as  they  push 
off  from  the  shore.  "  I  thought  you  were  goijig  to  take  it 
easy  in  a  punt." 

"  So  I  thought,"  said  Drysdale,  "but  I  couldn't  keep  away, 
ami  here  I  am.  I  sliall  run  up  ;  and  mind,  if  I  see  you 
within  ten  feet,  and  cocksure  to  win,  I'll  give  a  view  holloa. 
I'll  be  bound  you  shall  hear  it." 

"  j\lay  it  come  speedily,"  said  Blake,  and  then  settled  him- 
self in  his  seat. 

"  Eyes  in  the  boat — mind  now,  steady  all,  watch  the  stroke 
and  don't  quicken." 

These  are  Miller's  last  words  ;  every  faculty  of  himself  and 
the  crew  being  now  devoted- to  getting  a  good  start.  This  ia 
no  difhcidt  matter,  as  the  water  is  like  glass,  and  the  boat  lies 
lightly  on  it,  obeying  the  slightest  dip  of  the  oars  of  bow 
and  two,  who  just  feel  the  water  twice  or  thrice  in  the  last 
minute.  Then,  after  a  few  moments  of  brciithless  hush  on 
the  banJc,  the  last  gun  is  fired,  and  tliey  are  oiF. 

The  same  scene  of  mad  excitement  ensues,  only  tenfold 
more  intense,  as  almost  the  whole  interest  of  the  races  is  to- 
night concentrated  on  the  two  head  boats  and  their  fate.  At 
every  gate  there  is  a  jam,  and  the  weaker  vessels  are  shoved 


A    CIIANOE    IN    THK    CKKW  1 59 

III  to  the  ditches,  upset,  and  loft  unnoticed.  The  most  active 
men,  inchiding  the  0.  U.  B.  coxswain,  shun  the  gates  alto- 
gether, and  take  the  big  ditches  in  their  stride,  making  for 
the  long  bridges,  that  they  may  get  quietly  over  these  and  he 
safe  for  the  best  ])art  of  tlie  race.  They  know  that  the  critical 
point  of  the  struggle  will  be  near  the  finish. 

Both  boats  made  a  beautiful  start,  and  again  as  before  in 
the  first  dash  the  St.  Ambrose  j)ace  tells,  and  they  gain  their 
boat's  length  before  first  winds  fail  ;  then  they  settle  down 
for  a  long  steady  effort.  Both  crews  are  roAving  comparatively 
steady  reserving  themselves  for  the  tug  of  war  up  above. 
Thus  they  pass  the  Gut,  and  those  two  treacherous  corners, 
the  scene  of  countless  bumps,  into  the  wider  water  beyond, 
up  under  the  M'illows. 

Miller's  face  is  decidedly  hopeful ;  he  shoAvs  no  sign, 
indeed,  but  you  can  see  that  he  is  not  the  same  man  as  ho 
Avas  at  tliis  jilnce  in  the  last  race.  He  feels  that  to-day  the 
boat  is  fidl  of  life,  and  that  he  can  call  on  his  crew  with  hopes 
of  an  answer.  His  well-trained  eye  also  detects  that,  while 
both  crews  are  at  fidl  stretch,  his  OAvn,  instead  of  losing,  as  it 
did  on  the  last  night,  is  now  gaining  inch  by  inch  on  Oriel. 
The  gain  is  scarcely  perceptible  to  him  even  ;  from  the  l^ank 
it  is  quite  imperceptible  ;  but  there  it  is  ;  he  is  surer  and  surer 
of  it,  as  one  after  another  the  willows  are  left  behind. 

And  now  comes  the  pinch.  The  Oriel  captain  is  beginning 
to  be  conscious  of  the  fact  which  has  been  dawning  on  ^Miller, 
but  will  not  acknowledge  it  to  himself,  and  as  his  coxswain 
turns  the  boat's  head  gently  across  the  stream,  anil  makes  for 
the  Berkshire  side  and  the  goal,  now  full  in  view,  he  snu'les 
grindy  as  he  quickens  his  strolce  ;  he  will  shake  off  these 
light-heeled  gentry  yet,  as  ho  did  before. 

Miller  sees  the  move  in  a  moment,  and  signals  his  captain, 
and  the  next  stroke  St.  Ambrose  has  quiskened  also  ;  and 
now  there  is  no  mistake  about  it,  St.  Ambrose  is  creeping  up 
slowly  but  surely.  The  boat's  length  lessens  to  forty  feet, 
thirty  feet ;  surely  and  steadily  lessens.  But  the  race  is  not 
lost  yet ;  thirty  feet  is  a  short  space  enough  to  look  at  on  the 
water,  but  a  good  bit  to  pick  up  foot  by  foot  in  the  last  two 
or  three  hundred  yarils  of  a  desperate  struggle.  They  are 
over,  under  the  Berkshire  side  now,  and  there  stands  up  the 
winning-post,  close  ahead,  all  but  won.  The  distance  lessens, 
,nnl  lessens  still,  but  the  Oriel  crew  stick  steadily  and  gallantly 
to  their  woik,  and  will  fight  every  inch  of  distance  to  the 
last.  The  Oriel  men  on  the  bank,  who  are  rusJiing  along 
sometimes  in  the  water,  sometimes  out,  hoarse,  furious,  madly 
alternating  between  hope  and  despair,  have  no  reason  to  be 


1()0  TOM  BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

ashamed  of  a  man  in  the  crew.  Off  the  mouth  of  the 
Cherwell  tliere  is  still  twenty  feet  between  them.  Another 
minute,  and  it  wUl  be  over  one  way  or  another.  Every  man 
in  both  crews  is  now  doing  his  best,  and  no  mistake  ;  tell  mo 
which  boat  holds  the  most  men  who  can  do  better  than  their 
best  at  a  pinch,  who  will  risk  a  broken  blood-vessel,  and  I 
will  tell  you  how  it  wiU  end.  "  Hard  pounding,  gentlemen  ; 
let's  see  who  will  pound  longest,"  the  Duke  is  reported  to 
have  said  at  Waterloo,  and  won.  "  Now,  Tummy,  lad,  'tia 
thou  or  I,"  Big  Ben  said  as  he  came  up  to  the  last  round  of 
his  hardest  light,  and  won.  Is  there  a  man  of  that  temper 
in  either  crew  to-night  1  If  so,  now's  his  time.  For  bol  h 
coxswains  have  called  on  their  men  for  the  last  effort ;  Miller 
is  whirling  the  tassel  of  his  right-hand  tiller  rope  round  his 
head,  like  a  wiry  little  lunatic  ;  from  the  to-wing  path,  from 
Christchurch  meadow,  from  the  row  of  punts,  from  the 
clustered  tops  of  the  barges,  comes  a  roar  of  encouragement 
and  applause,  and  the  band,  unable  to  resist  the  impulse, 
breaks  with  a  crash  into  the  "  Jolly  Young  Waterman," 
playing  two  bars  to  the  second.  A  bump  in  the  Out  is 
nothing — a  few  partisans  on  the  towing-path  to  cheer  you, 
abcady  out  of  breath  ;  but  up  here  at  the  very  finish,  with  all 
Oxford  looking  on,  when  the  prize  is  the  headship  of  the 
river — once  in  a  generation  only  do  men  get  such  a  chance. 

Who  ever  saw  Jervis  not  up  to  his  work  1  The  St.  Ambrose 
stroke  is  glorious.  Tom  had  an  atom  of  go  still  left  in  the 
very  back  of  his  head,  and  at  this  moment  he  heard  Drysdale's 
view  holloa  above  all  the  din  ;  it  seemed  to  give  him  a  lift, 
and  other  men  besides  in  the  boat,  for  in  another  six  strokes 
the  gap  is  lessened  and  St.  Ambrose  has  crept  up  to  ten  feet, 
and  now  to  five  from  the  stern  of  Oriel.  Weeks  afterwards 
Hardy  confided  to  Tom  that  when  he  heard  that  view  hoUoa 
he  seemed  to  feel  the  muscles  of  his  arms  and  legs  turn  into 
steel,  and  did  more  work  in  the  last  twenty  strokes  than  in 
any  other  forty  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  race. 

Another  fifty  yards  and  Oriel  is  safe,  but  the  look  on  the 
Captain's  face  is  so  ominous  that  their  coxswain  glances  over 
his  shoulder.  The  bow  of  St.  Ambrose  is  witliiu  two  feet  of 
their  rudder.  It  is  a  moment  for  desperate  expedients.  Ho 
pulls  his  left  tiller  rope  suddenly,  thereby  carrying  the  stern 
of  his  own  boat  out  of  the  line  of  the  St.  Ambrose,  and  calls 
on  his  crew  once  more ;  they  respond  gallantly  yet,  but  the 
rudder  is  against  them  for  a  moment,  and  the  boat  drags. 
St.  Ambrose  overlaps.  "  A  bump,  a  bump,"  shout  the  St. 
Ambrosians  on  shore.  "  Row  on,  row  on,"  screams  iVIiller. 
lie  has  not  yet  felt  the  electric  shock,  and  knows  he  will  mis3 


A    STORM    BRF.WS    AND    BREAKS.  161 

his  bump  if  the  young  ones  slacken  for  a  moment.  A  young 
coxswain  would  have  gone  on  making  shots  at  the  stern  of 
tlie  Oriel  boat,  and  so  have  lost. 

A  bump  now  and  no  mistake  ;  the  bow  of  the  St.  Ambrose 
boat  jams  the  oar  of  the  Oriel  stroke,  and  the  two  boats  pass 
tlie  winning-post  with  the  way  that  was  on  them  when  the 
bump  was  made.     So  near  a  shave  was  it. 

Who  can  describe  the  scene  on  the  bank  1  It  was  a  hurly- 
burly  of  delirious  joy,  in  the  midst  of  which  took  place  a 
terrific  combat  between  Jack  and  the  Oriel  dog — a  noble 
black  bull  terrier  belonging  to  the  college  in  general,  and  no 
one  in  particular — who  always  attended  the  races  and  felt  the 
misfortune  keenly.  Luckily  they  were  parted  without  worse 
things  hap]iening  ;  for  though  the  Oriel  men  were  savage, 
and  not  disinclined  for  a  jostle,  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
was  too  strong  for  the  moment  in  their  adversaries.  So  Jack 
was  choked  off  with  some  trouble,  and  the  Oriel  men  extricated 
themselves  from  the  crowd,  carrying  ofl'  Crib,  their  dog,  and 
looking  straight  before  them  into  vacancy. 

"  Well  rowed,  boys,"  says  Jervis,  turning  round  to  his  crew 
as  they  lay  panting  on  their  oars. 

"  Well  rowed,  five,"  says  Miller,  who  even  in  the  hour  of 
such  a  triumph  is  not  inclined  to  be  general  m  laudation. 

"  Well  rowed,  five,"  is  echoed  from  the  bank  j  it  is  that 
cunning  man,  the  recruiting-sergeant.  "  Fatally  well  rowed," 
he  adds  to  a  comrade,  with  whom  he  gets  into  one  of  the 
punts  to  cross  to  Christchurch  meadow ;  "  we  must  have  him 
in  the  University  crew." 

"  I  don't  think  you'll  get  him  to  row,  from  Avhat  I  hear," 
answers  the  other. 

"  I'hen  he  must  be  handcuffed  and  carried  into  the  boat  by 
force,''  says  the  0.  U.  B.  coxswain  ;  "  Avhy  is  not  the  press- 
gang  an  institution  in  this  university?" 


CHAPTEE  XV. 

A    STORM    BREWS    AND    BREAKS. 

Certaini  Drysdale's  character  came  out  well  that  night. 
He  did  not  seem  the  least  jealous  of  the  success  which  had 
been  achieved  through  his  dismissal.  On  the  contrary,  there 
was  no  man  in  the  coUege  who  showed  more  interest  in  the 
race,  or  joy  at  the  result,  than  he.  Perhaps  the  pleasure  of 
being  out  of  it  himself  may  have  reckoned  for  something  with 
bim.  In  any  case,  there  he  was  at  the  door  with  Ja:;k,  to 
pteet  the  crew  as  they  landed   after  the  race,  with  a  large 


1C2  TOM   BEOWN   AT    OXFORD. 

pewter,  foaming  with  shandygaff,  in  each  hand,  for  theii 
recreation.  Draco  himself  could  not  have  forbidden  them  to 
drink  at  that  moment ;  so,  amidst  shaking  of  hands  and 
cL'ippings  on  the  back,  the  pewters  travelled  round  from  stroke 
to  bow,  and  then  the  crew  went  off  to  their  dressing-room, 
accompanied  by  Drysdale  and  others, 

"  Bravo  !  it  was  the  finest  race  that  has  been  seen  on  the 
river  this  six  years  ;  everybody  says  so.  You  fellows  have 
deserved  well  of  your  country.  I've  sent  up  to  college  to 
have  supper  in  my  rooms,  and  you  must  all  come.  Hang 
training !  there  are  only  two  more  nights,  and  you're  safe  to 
keep  your  place.  What  do  you  say  Captain  ]  eh,  Miller  1 
Kow  be  good-natured  for  once." 

"  Miller,  what  do  you  say  1 "  said  the  Captain. 
"  Well,  we  don't  get  head  of  the  river  every  night,"  said 
Miller.     "  I  don't  object  if  you'll  all  turn  out  and  go  to  bed 
at  eleven." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  and  now  let's  go  to 
the  old  '  Choughs'  and  have  a  glass  of  ale  while  supper  is 
getting  ready.  Eh,  Brown]"  and  he  hooked  his  arm  into 
Tom's  and  led  the  way  into  the  town. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  you  were  not  in  it  for  the  finish,"  said  Tom, 
who  was  quite  touched  by  his  friend's  good-humour. 

"  Are  you  ]"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  it's  more  than  I  am,  then,  I 
can  tell  you.  If  you  could  have  seen  yourself  under  the 
wUlows,  you  wouldn't  have  thought  yourseK  much  of  an 
object  of  envy.  Jack  and  I  were  quite  satisfied  with  our 
share  of  work  and  glory  on  the  bank.  Weren't  we,  old 
fellow  1"  at  which  salutation  Jack  reared  himself  on  his  hind 
legs  and  licked  his  master's  hautL 

"  Well,  you're  a  real  good  fellow  for  taking  it  as  you  do.  1 
don't  think  I  could  have  come  near  tlie  river  if  I  had  beeii  you." 
''  I  take  everything  as  it  comes,"  said  Drysd;de.  "  The 
next  race  is  on  Derby  day,  and  I  couldn't  have  gone  if  I 
hadn't  beer  turned  out  of  the  boat  ;  that's  a  compen.sation, 
you  see.  Here  we  are.  I  wouder  if  Miss  Patty  has  heard  of 
the  victory  1" 

They  turned  down  the  little  passage  entrance  of  "  The 
Choughs"  as  he  spoke,  followed  by  most  of  the  crew,  and 
by  a  tail  of  younger  St.  Ambrosiaus,  their  admirers,  and  the 
bar  was  crowded  the  next  moincnt.  Patty  was  there,  of 
course,  and  her  services  were  in  great  requisition  ;  for  though 
each  of  the  crew  only  took  a  small  glass  of  the  old  ale,  they 
made  as  much  fuss  about  it  with  the  pretty  barmaid  as  if  they 
were  drinking  hogsheads.  In  fact,  it  had  become  clearly  llio 
correct  thing  with  the  St,  Ambrosiaus  to  make  much  of  Patty  ; 


A   STORM    BREWS   AND    BREAKS.  1G3 

anrl,  considering  the  circumstances,  it  was  only  a  wonder  that 
slie  was  not  more  spoilt  than  seemed  to  be  the  case.  Indeed, 
as  Hardy  stood  up  in  tlie  corner  opposite  to  the  landlady's 
chair,  a  silent  on-looker  at  the  scene,  he  couldn't  help  admitting 
to  himself  that  the  girl  held  her  own  well,  without  doing  or 
saying  anything  unbecoming  a  modest  woman.  And  it  was  a 
hard  thing  for  him  to  be  fair  to  her,  for  what  he  saw  now  in 
a  few  minutes  confirmed  the  impression  which  his  former 
visit  had  left  on  his  mind — that  his  friend  was  safe  in  her 
toils  ;  how  deeply,  of  course  he  could  not  judge,  but  that 
there  was  nioie  between  them  than  he  could  approve  was  now 
clear  enough  to  him,  and  he  stood  silent,  leaning  against  the 
wall  in  that  fiirthest  corner,  in  the  shadow  of  a  projecting 
cupboard,  much  distressed  in  mind,  and  pondering  over  what 
it  behoved  him  to  do  under  the  circumstances.  With  the 
exception  of  a  civil  sentence  or  '\V'0  to  the  old  landlady,  who 
sat  opposite  him  knitting,  and  casting  rather  uneasy  looks 
from  time  to  time  towards  the  front  of  the  bar,  he  spoke  to 
no  one.  In  fact,  nobody  came  near  that  end  of  the  room, 
and  their  existence  seemed  to  have  been  forgotten  by  the 
resL 

Tom  had  been  a  little  uncomfortable  for  the  first  minute  ; 
but  after  seeing  Hardy  take  his  glass  of  ale,  and  then  missing 
him,  he  forgot  all  about  him,  and  was  too  busy  with  his  own 
affairs  to  trouble  himself  further.  He  had  become  a  sort  of 
drawer,  or  barman,  at  "The  Choughs,''  and  presided,  under 
Patty,  over  the  distribution  of  the  ale,  giving  an  eye  to  his 
chief  to  see  that  she  was  not  put  upon. 

Drysdale  and  Jack  left  after  a  short  stay,  to  see  that  the 
supper  was  being  properly  prepared.  Soon  afterwards  Patty 
went  off  out  of  the  bar  in  answer  to  some  bell  which  called 
her  to  another  part  of  the  liouse  ;  and  the  St.  Ambrosians 
voted  that  it  was  time  to  go  off  to  college  to  supper,  and 
cleared  out  into  the  street. 

Tom  went  out  with  the  last  batch  of  them,  but  lingered  a 
moment  in  the  passage  outside.  He  knew  the  house  and  its 
ways  well  enough  by  this  time.  The  next  moment  Patty 
appeared  from  a  side  door,  Vv'hich  led  to  another  part  of  the 
house. 

"  So  you're  not  going  to  stay  and  plaj'-  a  game  with  aunt," 
she  said ;  "what  makes  you  in  such  a  hurry  1" 

"  I  must  go  up  to  college ;  there's  a  supper  to  celebrate  our 
gottmg  head  of  the  river."  Patty  looked  down  and  pouted  a 
little.  Tom  took  her  hand,  and  said,  sentimentally,  "  Don't 
be  cross,  now ;  you  know  that  I  would  sooner  stay  here,  don't 
you?" 

M  2 


164  TOM   BBOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

She  tossed  her  head,  and  pulled  away  her  hand,  and  then 
changing  the  subject,  said, 

♦'  Who's  that  ugly  old  fellow  who  was  here  again  to-night  T' 

"  There  was  no  one  older  than  Miller,  and  he  is  rather  an 
admirer  of  yours.     I  shall  tell  him  you  called  him  ugly." 

'*  Oh,  I  don't  mean  Mr.  Miller;  you  kno-,r  that  well  enough," 
she  answered.  "  I  mean  him  in  the  old  rough  coat,  who  don't 
talk  to  any  one." 

"  Ugly  old  fellow,  Patty  ?  Wliy  you  mean  Hardy.  He's 
a  great  friend  of  mine,  and  you  must  like  him  for  my  sake." 

"I'm  sure  I  won't.  1  don't  like  him  a  bit;  he  looks  so 
cross  at  me." 

"  It's  all  yoiTr  fan^^y.     There  now,  good-night.'' 

"You  sha'n't  go,  however,  till  you've  given  me  that  hand- 
kcrchiet  You  promised  it  mo  if  you  got  head  of  the 
river." 

"  Oh !  you  little  story-teller.  "VNHiy  they  are  my  college 
colours.  1  wouldn't  part  with  them  for  worlds.  I'll  give 
you  a  lock  of  ray  hair,  and  the  prettiest  handkercliief  you  can 
find  in  Oxford  ;  but  not  this." 

"  But  I  will  have  it,  and  you  did  promise  me  it,"  she  said, 
and  put  up  her  hands  suddenly,  and  untied  the  bow  of  Tom's 
neck-handkerchief.  He  caught  her  wrists  in  his  hands,  and 
looked  down  into  her  eyes,  in  which,  if  he  saw  a  little  pique 
at  his  going,  he  saw  other  things  which  stuTed  in  him  strange 
feelings  of  triumph  and  tenderness. 

"  Well,  then,  you  shall  pay  for  it,  any  how,"  he  said. — 
Why  need  I  tell  what  followed  ? — There  was  a  little  struggle ; 
a  "Go  along,  do,  Mr.  Brown;"  and  the  next  minute  Tom, 
minus  his  handkerchief,  was  hurrying  after  his  companions  ; 
and  Patty  was  watching  him  from  the  door,  and  setting  her 
cap  to  rights.  Then  she  turned  and  went  back  into  the  bar, 
and  started,  and  turned  red,  as  she  saw  Hardy  there,  still 
standing  in  the  further  corner,  opposite  her  aunt.  He  finished 
his  glass  of  ale  as  she  came  in,  and  then  passed  out,  wishing 
them  "  Good-night." 

"Why,  aunt,"  she  said,  "I  thought  they  wore  all  gone. 
Who  was  that  sour-looking  man?" 

"  He  seems  a  nice  quiet  gentleman,  my  dear,"  said  the  old 
lady,  looking  up.  "  I'm  sure  he's  much  better  than  those  ones 
as  makes  so  much  racket  in  the  bar.  But  where  have  you 
been,  Patty  1 " 

"  Oh,  to  the  commercial  room,  aunt.  Won't  you  have  a 
game  at  cribbage  1  "  and  Patty  took  up  the  cards  and  set  the 
board  out,  the  old  lady  looking  at  her  doubtfully  all  the  time 
through  her  spectacles.     She  was  beginning  to  wish  that  the 


A   STOEM   BREWS   A2s^D   BREAKS.  105 

college  gentlemen  wouldn't  come  so  much  to  tlie  house,  thougli 
they  were  very  good  customers. 

Tom,  minus  his  handkerchief,  hurried  after  his  comrades, 
and  caught  them  up  before  they  got  up  to  college.  They 
were  all  there  but  Hardy,  whose  absence  vexed  our  hero  for 
a  moment ;  he  had  hoped  that  Hardy,  now  that  he  was  in 
the  boat,  would  have  shaken  off  all  his  reserve  towards  the 
other  men,  and  blamed  bim  because  he  had  not  done  so  at 
once.  There  could  be  no  reason  for  it  but  his  own  oddness, 
he  thought,  for  every  one  was  full  of  his  praises  as  they 
strolled  on  talking  of  the  race.  Miller  praised  his  style,  and 
time,  and  pluck.  "Didn't  you  feel  how  the  boat  sprung 
when  1  called  on  you  at  the  Cherwell  1  "  he  said  to  the 
Captain.  "Drysdale  was  always  dead  beat  at  the  Gut,  and 
just  like  a  log  in  the  boat,  pr6tty  much  like  some  of  the  rest 
of  you." 

"  He's  in  such  good  training,  too,"  said  Diogenes  ;  "  I  shall 
find  out  how  he  diets  himself" 

"  We've  pretty  well  done  with  that,  I  should  hope,"  said 
No.  6.  "  There  are  only  two  more  nights,  and  nothing  can 
touch  us  now." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said  Miller.  "Mind  now,  all 
of  you,  don't  let  us  have  any  nonsense  till  the  races  are  over 
and  we  are  all  safe." 

And  so  they  talked  on  till  they  reached  college,  and  then 
dispersed  to  their  rooms  to  wash  and  dress,  and  met  again  in 
Drysdale's  rooms,  where  supper  was  awaiting  them. 

Again  Hardy  did  not  appear.  Drysdale  sent  a  scout  to  his 
rooms,  who  brought  back  word  that  he  cc  .ild  not  find  him  ; 
so  Drysdale  set  to  work  to  do  the  honours  of  his  table,  and 
enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  tempting  the  creAV  with  all  sorts  of 
forbidden  hot  liquors,  wliich  he  and  the  rest  of  the  non-pro- 
fessionals imbibed  freely.  But  with  Miller's  eye  on  them, 
and  the  example  of  Diogenes  and  the  Captain  before  them, 
the  rest  of  the  crew  exercised  an  abstemiousness  which  would 
have  been  admirable,  had  it  not  been  in  a  great  measure 
compulsory. 

It  was  a  great  success,  this  supper  at  Drysdale's,  although 
knocked  iip  at  an  hour's  notice.  The  triumph  of  their  boat 
had,  for  the  time,  the  effect  of  warming  up  and  drawing  out 
the  feeling  of  fellowship,  which  is  the  soul  of  college  life. 
Though  only  a  few  men  besides  the  crew  sat  down  to  supper, 
long  before  it  was  cleared  away  men  of  every  set  in  the 
college  came  in,  in  the  highest  spirits,  and  the  room  was 
crowded.  For  Drysdale  sent  round  to  every  man  in  the 
college  with  whom   he   had   a  speaking  acquaintance,   and 


106  T(1M    BROWN  AT   OXFORD. 

tlioy  floclvcd  in  and  sat  where  they  could,  and  men  talked 
and  laughed  with  neighbours,  with  whom,  perhaps,  they  had 
never  exclianged  a  word  since  the  time  when  they  were 
freshmen  togetlier. 

Of  course  tliere  were  speeches,  cheered  to  the  echo,  and 
songs.^  of  which  the  choruses  might  have  been  heard  in  the 
High-street.  At  a  little  before  eleven,  nevertheless,  despite 
the  protestations  of  Drysda^e,  and  the  passive  resistance  of 
several  of  tlieir  number,  INliller  carried  oif  the  crew,  and 
many  of  the  other  guests  went  at  the  same  time,  leaving  their 
host  and  a  small  circle  to  make  a  niglit  of  it. 

Tom  went  to  his  rooms  in  high  spirits,  humming  the  air  of 
one  of  the  songs  he  had  just  heard  ;  but  he  had  scarcely 
thrown  his  gown  on  a  chah  when  a  thought  struck  him,  and 
he  ran  down  stairs  again  and  across  to  Hardy's  rooms. 

Hardy  was  sitting  with  some  cold  tea  poured  out,  but  im- 
tasted,  before  him,  and  no  books  open — a  very  unusual  thing 
with  him  at  night.  But  Tom  either  did  not  or  would  not 
notice  that  there  was  anything  unusual. 

He  seated  himself  and  began  gossiping  away  as  fast  as  he 
coiild,  without  looking  much  at  the  other.  He  began  by 
recounting  all  the  complimentary  things  wliich  had  been  said 
by  ]\Iiller  and  others  of  Hardy's  pulling.  Then  he  went  on 
to  the  supper  party  ;  what  a  jolly  evening  they  had  had  ;  he 
did  not  remember  anything  so  pleasant  since  he  had  been  up, 
and  he  retailed  the  speeches  and  named  the  best  songs. 
"  You  really  ought  to  have  been  there.  Why  didn't  you  come  1 
Drysdale  sent  over  for  you.  I'm  sure  every  one  wished  you 
had  hoen  there.     Didn't  you  get  his  message  1 " 

"  I  didn't  feel  up  to  going,"  said  Hardy. 

"There's  nothing  the  matter,  eh?"  said  Tom,  as  the  thought 
crossed  his  mind  tliat  perhaps  Hardy  had  hurt  himself  in  the 
race,  as  he  had  not  been  regularly  training. 

"No,  nothing,"  answered  the  other. 

Tom  tried  to  make  j^lay  again,  but  soon  came  to  an  end  of 
his  talk.  It  was  impossible  to  make  head  against  that  cold 
silence.  At  last  he  stopped,  looked  at  Hardy  for  a  minute, 
who  was  staring  abstractedly  at  the  sword  over  his  mantel- 
piece, and  then  said, — 

"  There  is  something  the  matter,  though.  Don't  sit 
glowering  as  if  you  had  swallowed  a  furze  bush.  Wliy, 
you  haven't  been  smoking,  old  boyi"  he  added,  getting  up 
and  putting  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder.  "  I  see  that's 
it.  Here,  take  one  of  my  weeds,  they're  mild.  Miller  allows 
two  of  these  a  day." 

"  2s'(\  tharik'eo,"  said   Hardy,  routing   liiiaBelf ;   "  Millei 


k   STORM  BREWS   AND   BREAKS.  1G7 

hasn't  interfered  witli  my  smoking,  and  I  will  have  a  pipe, 
for  I  think  I  want  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  that  it  does  j^on  any  good,"  said  Tom, 
after  watching  him  fill  and  light,  and  smoke  for  some  minutes 
without  saying  a  word.  "  Here,  I've  managed  the  one  thing 
I  had  at  heart.  You  are  in  the  crew,  and  we  are  head  of  tlie 
river,  and  everybody  is  praising  your  rowing  up  to  the  skies, 
and  saying  that  the  bump  was  all  your  doing.  And  here 
I  come  to  tell  you,  and  not  a  word  can  I  get  out  of  you. 
Ain't  you  pleased  ?  Do  you  think  we  shall  keep  our  place  ?" 
He  paused  a  moment. 

"  Hang  it  all,  I  say,"  he  added,  losing  all  patience, ;  "  swear 
a  little  if  you  can't  do  anything  else.  Let's  hear  your  voice ; 
it  isn't  such  a  tender  one  that  you  need  keep  it  all  shut 
up." 

"  Well,"  said  Hardy,  making  a  great  effort ;  "  the  real  fact 
is  I  have  something,  and  something  very  serious  to  sav  to 
you." 

"  Then  I'm  not  going  to  listen  to  it,"  broke  in  Tom  ;  "  I'm 
not  serious,  and  I  won't  be  serious,  and  no  one  shall  make  me 
serious  to-night.  It's  no  use,  so  don't  look  glum.  But  isn't 
the  ale  at  *  The  Choughs '  good  ;  and  isn't  it  a  dear  little 
place  V 

"  It's  that  place  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about,"  said  Hardy, 
turning  his  chair  suddenly  so  as  to  front  his  \isitc»r.  "  jS^ow, 
Brown,  we  haven't  known  one  another  long,  but  I  tliink  Z 
understand  you,  and  I  know  I  like  you,  and  i  hope  you  like 
me." 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  broke  in  Tom,  "  of  course  I  like  you, 
old  fellow,  or  else  I  shouldn't  come  poking  after  you,  and 
wasting  so  much  of  your  time,  and  sitting  on  your  cursed 
hard  chairs  in  the  middle  of  the  races.  Wliat  has  liking  to 
do  with  '  The  Choughs,'  or  '  The  Choughs  '  with  long  faces  1 
You  ought  to  have  had  another  glass  of  ale  there." 

"  I  wish  you  liad  never  had  a  glass  of  ale  there,"  said 
Hardy,  bolting  out  his  words  as  if  they  were  red  hot.  "  Brown, 
you  have  no  right  to  go  to  that  place." 

"  Why  ■?  "  said  Tom,  sitting  up  in  his  chair,  and  beginning 
to  be  nettled. 

"You  know  why,"  said  Hardy,  looking  him  full  in  the 
face,  and  puffing  out  huge  volumes  of  smoke.  In  spite  of 
the  bluntuess  of  the  attack,  there  was  a  yearning  look  which 
epread  over  the  rugged  brow,  and  shone  out  of  the  deep-set 
ej-es  of  the  speaker,  which  almost  conquered  Tom.  But  first 
pride,  and  then  the  consciousness  of  what  was  coming  next, 
which  began  to  dawn  on  liim,  rose  in  his  heart.     It  was  aU  he 


168  TOM    BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

could  do  to  meet  that  look  full,  but  lie  managed  it,  thr)ugh 
he  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  as  he  simply  repeated 
through  his  set  teeth,   "  Why?" 

"  I  say  again,"  said  Hardy,   "  you  know  why." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Tom,  slowly  ;  "  as  you  say, 
we  have  not  known  one  another  long ;  long  enough,  thougli, 
I  should  have  thought,  for  you  to  have  been  more  charitable. 
"Wliy  am  I  not  to  go  to  'The  Choughs?'  Because  there  happens 
to  be  a  pretty  bar  maid  there  1  All  our  crew  go,  and  twenty 
other  men  besides." 

"  Yes  ;  but  do  any  of  them  go  in  the  sort  of  way  you  do  ? 
Does  she  look  at  any  one  of  them  as  she  does  at  you  ? " 

"How  do  I  know?" 

"  That's  not  fair,  or  true,  or  like  you,  Brown,"  said  Hardy, 
getting  up,  and  beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 
"  You  do  know  that  that  girl  doesn't  care  a  straw  for  the 
other  men  who  go  there.  You  do  know  that  she  is  beginning 
to  care  for  you." 

"  You  seem  to  know  a  g^eat  deal  about  it,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I 
don't  believe  you  were  ever  there  before  two  days  ago." 

"  JSTo,  I  never  was," 

"Then  I  think  you  needn't  be  quite  so  quick  at  finding 
faidt.  If  there  were  anything  I  didn't  wish  you  to  see,  do 
you  think  I  should  have  taken  you  there  1  I  tell  you  she 
is  quite  able  to  take  care  of  herself" 

"  So  I  believe,"  said  Hardy  ;  "  if  she  were  a  mere  giddy, 
light  girl,  setting  her  cap  at  every  man  who  came  in,  it 
wouldn't  matter  so  much — for  her  at  any  rate.  She  can  take 
care  of  herself  well  enough  so  far  as  the  rest  are  concerned, 
but  you  know  it  isn't  so  with  you.  You  know  it  now, 
Brown  ;  tell  the  truth  ;  any  one  with  half  an  eye  can  see  it." 

"  You  seem  to  have  made  pretty  good  use  of  your  eyes 
in  these  two  nights,  anyhow,"   said  Tom. 

"  I  don't  mind  your  sneers,  Brown,"  said  Hardy,  as  he 
tramped  up  and  doAvn  with  his  arms  locked  behind  him  ; 
"  I  have  taken  on  myself  to  speak  to  you  about  this  ;  I  should 
be  no  true  friend  if  I  shirked  it.  I'm  four  years  older  than 
you,  and  have  seen  more  of  the  world  and  of  this  place  than 
you.  You  sha'n't  go  on  with  this  folly,  this  sin,  for  want  of 
warning." 

"  So  it  seems,"  said  Tom,  doggedly.  "  Now  I  think  I've 
nad  warning  enough  ;  suppose  we  drop  the  subject." 

Hardy  stopped  in  his  walk,  and  turned  on  Tom  with  a  look 
of  auger.  "  Not  yet,"  he  said,  firmly  ;  "  you  know  best  how 
and  why  you  have  done  it,  but  you  know  Ihut  sumehow  oi 
other  you  have  made  that  girl  like  you  " 


A  STORM  BEEWS  AND  BREAKS.        1G9 

"  Suppose  I  have,  what  then  ;  whose  business  is  that  but 
mine  and  hers?" 

"  It's  the  business  of  every  one  who  won't  stand  by  and  see 
the  devil's  game  played  under  his  nose  if  he  can  hinder  it." 

"What  right  have  you  to  talk  about  the  devil's  game  to 
me?"  said  Tom.  "I'll  tell  you  what,  if  you  and  I  are  to 
keep  friends,  we  had  better  drop  tlris  subject." 

"  If  we  are  to  keep  friends  we  must  go  to  the  bottom  of  it. 
There  are  only  two  endings  to  this  sort  of  business,  and  you 
know  it  as  well  as  I." 

"  A  right  and  a  wrong  one,  eh  ?  and  because  you  call  me 
your  friend  you  assume  that  my  end  will  be  the  wrong  one." 

"  I  do  caU  you  my  friend,  and  I  say  the  end  must  be  the 
wrong  one  here.  There's  no  right  end.  Think  of  your 
family.  You  don't  mean  to  say — you  dare  not  teU  me,  that 
you  will  marry  her  1 " 

"  I  dare  not  tell  you  ! "  said  Tom,  starting  up  in  his  turn  ; 
"  I  dare  tell  you  or  any  man  an^^thing  I  please.  But  I  won't 
tell  you  or  any  man  anytliing  on  compulsion." 

"  I  repeat,"  went  on  Hardy,  "  you  dare  not  say  you  mean 
to  marry  her.  You  don't  mean  it — and,  as  you  don't,  to  kisa 
her  as  you  did  to-night — " 

"  So  you  were  sneaking  behind  to  watch  me  ! "  burst  out 
Tom,  chafing  with  rage,  and  glad  to  find  any  handle  for  a 
quarrel.  The  two  men  stood  fronting  one  another,  the  younger 
writhing  with  the  sense  of  shame  and  outraged  pride,  and 
longing  for  a  fierce  answer — a  blow — anything  to  give  vent 
to  the  furies  which  were  tearing  him. 

But  at  the  end  of  a  few  seconds  the  elder  answered,  calndy 
and  slowly, — 

"  I  will  not  take  those  words  from  any  man ;  you  had 
better  leave  my  rooms." 

"  If  I  do,  I  shall  not  come  back  till  you  have  altered  your 
opinions." 

"  You  need  not  come  back  till  you  have  altered  yours." 

The  next  moment  Tom  was  in  the  passage  ;  the  next, 
striding  up  and  down  the  side  of  the  inner  quadrangle  in  the 
pale  moonlight. 

Poor  fellow  !  it  was  no  pleasant  walking  ground  for  him. 
Is  it  worth  our  while  to  follow  him  up  and  down  in  his 
tramp  ?  We  have  most  of  us  walked  the  like  marches  at  one 
time  or  another  of  our  lives.  The  memory  of  them  is  by  no 
means  one  which  we  can  dwell  on  with  pleasure.  Times  they 
were  of  blinding  and  driving  storm,  and  howling  winds,  out 
of  Mhich  voices  as  of  evil  spirits  spoke  close  in  our  ears — 
tauntingly,  temptingly,  whispering  to  the  mischievous  wild 


170  TOM  BROWN  AT   OXFORD. 

beast  whidi  lurks  in  the  bottom  of  all  our  hearts,  now, 
"  Rouse  up  !  art  thou  a  man  and  darest  not  do  this  thing  1 " 
now,  "  Rise,  kill  and  eat — it  is  thine,  wilt  thou  not  take  it  ? 
Shall  the  flims}^  scruples  of  this  teacher,  or  the  sanctified  cant 
of  that,  bar  thy  way,  and  baulk  thee  of  thine  own?  Thou 
hast  strength  to  brave  them — to  brave  all  things  in  earth,  or 
heaven,  or  hell ;  put  out  thy  strength,  and  be  a  man  ! " 

Then  did  not  the  wild  beast  -vvithin  us  shake  itself,  a.'id 
feel  its  power,  sweeping  away  all  the  "  Thou  shalt  not's " 
which  the  Law  wrote  up  before  us  in  letters  of  fire,  with  the 
"  I  will  "  of  hardy,  godless,  self-assertion  1  And  all  tlie  wliile 
— which  alone  made  the  storm  really  dreadful  to  us — was 
there  not  the  still  small  voice — never  to  be  altogether  silenced 
by  the  roarings  of  the  tempest  of  passion,  by  the  evil  voices, 
by  our  OAvn  violent  attempts  to  stifle  it — the  still  small  voice 
appealing  to  the  man,  the  tiTie  man,  within  us,  which  is  made 
in  the  image  of  God — calling  on  him  to  assert  his  dominion 
over  the  wild  beast — to  obey,  and  conquer,  and  live  ?  Ay  ! 
and  though  we  may  have  followed  the  other  voices,  have  we 
not,  while  following  them,  confessed  in  our  hearts,  that  all 
true  strength,  and  nobleness,  and  manliness,  was  to  be  found 
in  the  other  path  ?  Do  I  say  that  most  of  us  have  had  to 
tread  this  path,  and  fight  this  battle  ?  Surely  I  might  have 
said  all  of  us  ;  all,  at  least,  who  have  passed  the  bright  days 
of  their  boyhood.  The  clear  and  keen  intellect  no  less  than 
the  dull  and  heavy ;  the  weak,  the  cold,  the  nervous,  no  less 
than  the  strong  and  passionate  of  body.  The  arms  and  the 
field  have  been  divers  ;  can  have  been  the  same,  I  suppose,  to 
no  two  men,  but  the  battle  must  have  been  the  same  to  all. 
One  here  and  there  may  have  had  a  foretaste  of  it  as  a  boy  ; 
but  it  is  the  young  man's  battle,  and  not  the  boy's,  tliank 
God  for  it !  That  most  liateful  and  fearful  of  all  realities,  call  it 
by  what  name  we  will — self,  the  natural  man,  the  old  Adam — 
must  have  risen  up  before  each  of  us  in  early  manhood,  if  not 
sooner,  challenging  the  true  man  within  us,  to  which  the 
Spirit  of  God  is  sj)eaking,  to  a  struggle  for  hfe  or  death. 

Gird  j^ourself,  then,  for  the  fight,  my  young  brother,  and 
take  up  the  pledge  which  was  made  for  you  when  you  were  a 
helpless  child.  This  world,  and  all  others,  time  and  etcrnitj'-, 
for  you  hang  upon  the  issue.  This  enemy  must  be  met  and 
vanquished — not  finally,  for  no  man  while  on  eai'th,  I  suppose, 
can  say  that  he  is  slain  ;  but,  when  once  Icnown  and  recognised, 
met  and  vanquished  he  must  be,  by  God's  help,  in  this  and 
that  encounter,  before  you  can  be  truly  called  a  man  ;  before 
you  can  really  enjoy  any  one  even  of  this  world's  good  things. 

The  strife  was  no  light  one  for  our  hero  on  the  ni'dit  in  his 


A   STOr.xM   BREWS    AND    BREAKS.  171 

life  at  ■n'hich  we  have  arrived.  The  quiet  sky  overhead,  tlie 
quiet  solemn  ohl  buildings,  under  the  shadow  of  which  he 
stood,  brought  him  no  peace.  He  fled  from  them  into  liia 
own  rooms  ;  he  lighted  his  candles  and  tried  to  read,  and 
force  the  whole  matter  from  his  thoughts  ;  but  it  was  useless  : 
back  it  came  again  and  again.  The  more  imjiatient  of  its 
presence  he  became,  the  less  could  he  shake  it  off.  Some 
decision  he  must  make  ;  what  should  it  be  1  He  could  have 
no  peace  till  it  was  taken.  The  veil  had  been  dra^Ti  aside 
thoroughl}'',  and  once  for  all  Twice  he  was  on  the  point  of 
returning  to  Hardy's  rooms  to  thank  lum,  confess,  and  con- 
sult ;  but  the  tide  relied  back  again.  As  the  truth  of  the 
warning  sank  deeper  and  deeper  into  him,  the  irritation 
against  him  Avho  had  uttered  it  grew  also.  He  could  not  and 
would  not  be  fair  yet.  It  is  no  easy  thing  for  any  one  of  us 
to  put  the  whole  burden  of  any  folly  or  sin  on  our  own  backs 
all  at  once.  "  If  he  had  done  it  in  any  other  way,"  thought 
Tom,  "  I  might  have  thanked  him." 

Another  elfort  to  shake  off  the  whole  question.  Down 
into  the  quadrangle  again  ;  lights  in  Drysdale's  rooms.  He 
goes  up,  and  finds  the  remains  of  the  supper,  tankards  full  (j1 
egg-flip  and  cardinal,  and  a  party  pla5dng  at  vingt-un.  IIo 
drinks  freely,  careless  of  training  or  boat-racing,  anxious 
only  to  drown  thought.  He  sits  do^vn  to  play.  The  boisterous 
talk  of  some,  the  eager  keen  looks  of  others,  jar  on  him 
equally.  One  minute  he  is  absent,  the  next  boisterous,  then 
irritable,  then  moody.  A  college  card-party  is  no  place  to- 
night for  him.  He  loses  his  money,  is  disgusted  at  last,  and 
gets  to  his  own  rooms  by  midnight ;  goes  to  bed  feverish, 
dissatisfied  with  himself,  with  all  the  world.  The  inexorable 
question  pursues  him  even  into  the  strange  helpless  land  of 
dreams,  demanding  a  decision,  when  he  has  no  longer  power 
of  will  to  choose  either  good  or  evd. 

But  how  fared  it  all  this  time  with  the  physician  1  Alas  ! 
little  better  than  with  liis  patient.  His  was  the  deeper  and 
more  sensitive  nature.  Keenly  conscious  of  his  own  position, 
he  had  always  avoided  any  but  the  most  formal  intercourse 
with  the  men  in  his  college  whom  he  would  have  liked  most 
to  live  Avith.  This  was  the  first  friendship  he  had  made 
amongst  them,  and  he  valued  it  accordingly ;  and  now  it 
seemed  to  lie  at  his  feet  in  hopeless  fragments,  and  cast  down 
too  by  his  own  hand.  Bitterly  he  blamed  himself  over  and 
over  again,  as  he  recalled  every  word  that  had  passed — not 
for  having  spoken — that  he  felt  had  been  a  sacred  duty — but 
for  the  harslmess  and  suddenness  with  which  he  seemed  to 
aimself  to  have  done  it. 


172  TOM  BEO\yN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  One  touch  of  gentleness  or  sjonpathy,  and  I  might  have 
won  him.  As  it  was,  how  could  he  have  met  me  otherwise 
than  he  did — hard  word  for  hard  word,  hasty  answer  for 
proud  reproof?  Can  I  go  to  liim  and  recall  it  all  ?  !No  !  I 
can't  trust  myself ;  I  sball  only  make  matters  worse.  Be- 
sides, lie  may  think  that  the  servitor — Ah  !  am  I  there 
again  1  The  old  sore,  self,  self,  self  !  I  nurse  my  own  pride  ; 
J  value  it  more  than  my  friend  ;  and  yet — no,  no  !  I  cannot 
go,  though  1  think  I  could  die  for  him.  The  sin,  if  sin  there 
must  he,  be  on  my  head.  Would  to  God  I  could  bear  the 
sting  of  it !  But  there  will  be  none — how  can  I  fear  ]  he  is 
too  true,  too  manly.  Rough  and  brutal  as  my  words  have 
been,  they  have  shown  him  the  gulf.  He  will,  he  must 
escape  it.  But  will  he  ever  come  back  to  me  1  I  care  not, 
so  he  escape." 

How  can  my  poor  words  follow  the  strong  loving  man  in 
the  wrestlings  of  his  spirit,  till  far  on  in  the  quiet  night 
he  laid  the  whole  before  the  Lord  and  slept !  Yes,  my 
bru^^her,  even  so  :  the  old,  old  story ;  but  start  not  at  the 
phrase,  though  you  may  never  have  found  its  meaning. — He 
laid  the  whole  before  the  Lord,  in  prayer,  for  his  friend,  for 
himself,  for  the  whole  world. 

And  you,  too,  if  ever  you  are  tried  as  he  was — as  every 
man  must  be  in  one  way  or  another— must  learn  to  do  the 
like  with  every  burthen  on  your  soul,  if  you  would  not  have 
it  hanging  round  you  heavily,  and  ever  more  heavily,  and 
drugging  you  down  lower  and  lower  till  youi"  dying  day. 


CHAPTER    XVL 

THE    STORM    RAGES. 

Hardy  was  early  in  the  chapel  the  next  morning.  It  was 
his  week  for  pricking  in.  Every  man  who  entered — from 
the  early  men  who  stroUed  in  quietly  whUe  the  bell  was  still 
ringing,  to  the  hurrying,  half-dressed  loiterers  who  crushed  in 
as  the  portbr  was  closing  the  doors,  and  disturbed  the  con- 
gregation in  the  middle  of  the  confession — gave  him  a  turn 
(as  the  expressive  phrase  is),  and  every  turn  only  ended  in 
disappointment.  He  put  by  his  list  at  last,  when  the  doors 
were  fairly  shut,  with  a  sigh.  He  had  half  expected  to  see 
Tom  come  into  morning  chopel  with  a  face  from  which  he 
luight  have  gathered  hope  that  his  friend  had  taken  the  right 
path.  But  Tom  did  not  come  at  all,  and  Hardy  felt  it  was  a 
bad  sign. 


THE   STORM   RAGES.  17S 

They  did  not  meet  till  the  evening,  at  the  river,  when  the 
boat  went  down  for  a  steady  pull,  and  then  Hardy  saw  at 
once  that  all  was  going  wrong.  Neither  spoke  to  or  looked 
at  the  other.  Hardy  expected  some  one  to  remark  it,  but 
nobody  did.  After  the  pull  they  walked  up,  and  Tom  as 
usual  led  the  way,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  into  "  The 
Choughs."  Hardy  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  in 
too,  and  stayed  till  the  rest  of  the  crew  left.  Tom  delibe- 
rately stayed  after  them  all.  Hardy  turned  for  a  moment 
as  he  was  leaving  the  bar,  and  saw  him  settling  himself  down 
in  his  chair  with  an  air  of  defiance,  meant  evidently  for  him 
which  would  have  made  most  men  angry.  He  was  irritated 
for  a  moment,  and  then  was  filled  with  ruth  for  the  poor 
wrong-headed  youngster  who  was  heaping  up  coals  of  fire 
for  his  own  head.  In  his  momentary  anger  Hardy  said  to 
himself,  "  Well,  I  have  done  what  I  can  ;  now  he  must  go 
his  own  way  ;"  but  such  a  thought  was  soon  kicked  in  dis- 
grace from  his  noble  and  well-disciplined  mind.  He  resolved, 
that,  let  it  cost  what  it  might  in  the  shape  of  loss  of  time  and 
trial  of  temper,  he  would  leave  no  stone  unturned,  and  spare 
no  pains,  to  deliver  his  friend  of  yesterday  from  the  slough 
into  wliich  he  was  plunging.  How  he  might  best  work 
for  this  end  occupied  his  thoughts  as  he  walked  towards 
college. 

Tom  sat  on  at  "  Tlie  Choughs,"  glorifj-ing  himself  in  the 
thought  that  now,  at  any  rate,  he  had  shown  Hardy  that  he 
wasn't  to  be  dragooned  into  doing  or  not  doing  anything. 
He  had  had  a  bad  time  of  it  all  day,  and  his  good  angel  had 
fouglit  hard  for  victory  ;  but  self-will  was  too  strong  for  the 
time.  Wlien  he  stayed  behind  the  rest,  it  was  more  out  of 
bravado  tlian  from  any  defined  purpose  of  pursuing  what  he 
tried  to  persuade  himself  was  an  innocent  flirtation.  When 
he  left  the  house  some  hours  afterwards  he  Avas  deeper  in  the 
toils  than  ever,  and  dark  clouds  were  gathering  over  liis 
heart.  From  that  time  he  was  an  altered  man,  and  altering 
as  rajiidly  for  the  worse  in  body  as  in  mind.  Hardy  saw  the 
change  in  botli,  and  groaned  over  it  in  secret.  Miller's  quick 
eye  detected  the  bodily  change.  After  the  next  race  he  di-ew 
Tom  aside,  and  said, — 

"  Why,  Brown,  what's  the  matter  ?  Wliat  have  you  been 
about  ?  You're  breaking  down.  Hold  on,  man  j  there's  only 
one  more  night." 

"  Never  fear,"  said  Tom,  proudly,  "  I  shall  last  it  out." 

And  in  the  last  race  he  did  his  work  again,  though  it  cost 
him  more  than  all  the  preceding  ones  put  together,  and  when 
he  got  out  of  the  boat  he  could  scarcely  walk  or  see.     He 


174  TOM   BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

felt  a  fierce  kind  of  joy  in  Ms  own  distress,  and  wished  iLat 
there  were  more  races  to  come.  But  Miller,  as  he  walked  up 
arm-in-arm  with  the  Captain,  took  a  different  view  of  the 
subject. 

"  Well,  its  all  right,  you  see,"  said  the  Captain  ;  "  but  we're 
not  a  boat's  length  better  than  Oriel  over  tlie  course  after  all. 
How  was  it  we  bumped  them  ?  If  anything,  they  drew  a 
little  on  us  to-night." 

"  Ay,  lialf  a  boat's  length,  I  should  say,"  ansAvered  Miller. 
"  I'm  uncommonly  glad  it's  over ;  Erown  is  going  all  to 
pieces  ;  he  wouldn't  stand  another  race,  and  we  haven't  a  man 
to  put  in  his  place." 

"  It's  odd,  too,"  said  the  Captain ;  "  I  put  him  down  as  a 
laster,  and  he  has  trained  welL  Perhaps  he  has  overdone  it 
a  little.     However,  it  don't  matter  now." 

So  the  races  were  over  ;  and  that  night  a  great  sujiper  Avas 
held  in  St.  Ambrose  Hall,  to  which  were  bidden,  and  came, 
the  crews  of  all  the  boats  from  Exeter  upwards.  1'lie  Dean, 
with  many  misgivings  and  cautions,  had  allowed  the  hall  to 
be  used,  on  pressure  from  Lliller  and  Jervis.  Miller  was  a 
bachelor  and  had  taken  a  good  degree,  and  Jervis  bore  a  high 
cliaracter  and  was  expected  to  do  well  in  the  schools.  So  the 
poor  Dean  gave  in  to  them,  extracting  many  promises  in 
exchange  for  his  permission  :  and  flitted  uneasily  about  all 
the  evening  in  his  cap  and  gown,  instead  of  working  on  at 
his  edition  of  the  Fathers,  which  occupied  every  minute  of 
his  leisure,  and  was  making  an  old  man  of  him  before  his 
time. 

From  eight  to  eleven  the  fine  old  pointed  windoAvs  of  St. 
Ambrose  Hall  blazed  with  light,  and  the  choi-uses  of  songs, 
and  the  cheers  which  followed  the  short  intervals  of  silence 
which  the  speeclies  made,  rang  out  over  the  quadrangles,  and 
made  the  poor  Dean  amble  about  in  a  state  of  nervous  be- 
Avilderment.  Inside  there  was  hearty  feasting,  such  as  had 
not  been  seen  there,  for  I  auglit  I  know,  since  the  day  when 
the  king  came  back  to  "  enjoy  his  own  again."  The  one  old 
cup,  relic  of  the  Middle  Ages,  which  had  survived  the  civil 
wars, — St.  Ambrose's  had  been  a  right  loyal  college,  and  the 
plate  had  gone  without  a  murmur  into  Charles  the  First's 
war-che.st, — went  round  and  round  ;  and  rival  crews  pledged 
one  another  out  of  it,  and  tlie  massive  tankards  of  a  later  day, 
in  all  good  faith  and  good  felhnvship.  INIailed  knights,  grave 
bishops,  royal  persons  of  either  sex,  and  "other  our  bene- 
factors," looked  down  on  the  scene  from  their  heav}'  gilded 
frames,  and,  let  us  hope,  not  unkindly.  All  passed  off 
well  and  quietly  3  the  out-college  men  were  gone,  the  lights 


TIIE   STORM  HAGSS.  175 

were  out,  and  the  butler  had  locked  the  hall  door  hy  a 
quarter  past  eleven,  and  the  Dean  returned  in  peace  to  his 
oym.  rooms. 

Had  Tom  been  told  a  week  before  that  he  would  not  have 
enjoyed  that  night,  that  it  would  not  have  been  amongst  the 
happiest  and  proudest  of  his  life,  he  would  have  set  his  in- 
former down  as  a  inadman.  As  it  was,  he  never  once  rose  to 
the  spirit  of  the  feast,  and  wished  it  all  over  a  dozen  times. 
He  deserved  not  to  enjoy  it ;  but  not  so  Hardy,  who  was 
nevertheless  almost  as  much  out  of  tune  as  Tom  ;  though  the 
University  coxswaui  had  singled  him  out,  najued  him  in  his 
speech,  sat  by  him  and  talked  to  him  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  and  asked  him  to  go  to  the  Henley  and  Thames  regattas 
in  the  Oxford  crew. 

The  next  evening,  as  usual,  Tom  found  himself  at  "  The 
Choughs  "  with  half  a  dozen  others.  Patty  was  in  the  bar 
by  herself,  looking  prettier  than  ever.  One  by  one  the  rest 
of  the  men  dropped  off,  the  last  saying,  "  Are  you  coming, 
BroAvn  1  "  and  being  answered  in  the  negative. 

He  sat  still,  watchiiig  Patty  as  she  flitted  about,  washing  up 
the  ale  glasses  and  putting  them  on  their  shelves,  and  getting 
out  her  work-basket ;  and  then  she  came  and  sat  down  in 
her  aunt's  chair  opposite  him,  and  began  stitching  away 
demurely  at  an  apron  she  was  making.  Then  he  broke 
silence, — 

"  Where's  your  aunt  to-night,  Patty  ?  " 
"  Oh,  she  has  gone  away  for  a  few  days,  for  a  visit  to  some 
friends." 

"  You  and  I  will  keep  house,  then,  together ;  you  shall 
teach  me  all  the  tricks  of  tne  trade.  I  shall  make  a  famous 
barman,  don't  you  think  1  ' 

"  You  must  learn  to  behave  better,  then.  But  I  promised 
aimt  to  shut  up  at  nine  ;  so  you  must  go  when  it  strikes. 
Now  promise  me  you  will  go." 

"  Go  at  nine  !  what,  in  half  an  hour  ]  The  first  evenmg 
I  have  ever  had  a  chance  of  spending  alone  with  you ;  do 
rou  think  it  likely  1  "  and  he  looked  into  her  eyes.  She 
tarned  away  with  a  slight  shiver,  and  a  deep  blush. 

His  nervous  system  had  been  so  unusually  excited  in  the 
last  few  days,  that  he  seemed  to  kiiow  everything  that  was 
passing  in  her  mind.  He  took  her  hand.  "  Why,  Patty, 
you're  not  afraid  of   me,  surely  ?  "  he  said,  gently. 

"  No,  not  when  you're  like  you  are  now.  But  you  frightened 
me  just  this  minute.  I  never  saw  you  look  so  before.  Has 
anything  happened  to  you  ? " 

"  No,  nothing.     Now  then,  we're  going  to  have  a  jolly 


176  TOM    BPOWN   AT   OXFORD, 

evening,  and  play  Darby  and  Joan  together,"  he  said,  turning 
away,   and   going   to  the  bar  window ;    "  shall  I  shut  up, 

Patty  1 " 

"  No,  it  isn't  nine  yet ;  somebody  may  come  in." 

"  That's  just  why  I  mean  to  put  the  shutters  up ;  I  don't 
want  anybody." 

*'  Yes,  but  I  do,  though.  Now  I  declare,  Mr.  Brown,  if 
you  go  on  shutting  up,  I'll  run  into  the  kitchen  and  sit  with 
bick." 

"  ^^^ly  win  you  call  me  '  Mr.  Brown '  1 " 

"  Why,  what  should  I  call  you  ?  " 

"  Tom,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  I  never  !  one  would  think  you  was  my  brother,"  said 
Patty,  looking  up  witli  a  pretty  pcrtness  which  she  had  a 
most  bewitching  way  of  putting  on.  Tom's  rejoinder,  and 
the  little  squabble  which  tliey  had  afterwards  about  where 
her  work-table  should  stand,  and  other  such  matters,  may  be 
passed  over.  At  last  he  was  brought  to  reason,  and  to 
anchor  opposite  his  enchantress,  the  work-table  between 
them  ;  and  he  sat  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  and  watching  her, 
as  she  stitched  away  without  ever  lifting  her  eyes.  He  was 
in  no  hurry  to  break  the  silence.  The  position  was  particu- 
larly fascinating  to  him,  for  he  had  scarcely  ever  yet  had  a 
good  look  at  her  before,  without  fear  of  attracting  attention, 
or  being  interrupted.     At  last  he  roused  himself. 

"  Any  of  our  men  been  here  to-day,  Patty  1 "  he  said, 
sitting  up. 

"  There  now,  I've  won,"  she  laughed  ;  "  I  said  to  myself,  I 
wouldn't  speak  first,  and  I  haven't.  What  a  time  you  were  ! 
I  thought  you  would  never  begin." 

"  You're  a  little  goose !  Now  I  begin  then  j  who've  been 
hero  to-day  1 " 

"  Of  your  college  ?  let  me  see  ; "  and  she  looked  away 
across  to  the  bar  window,  pricking  her  needle  into  the  table. 
"  Tliere  was  Mr.  Drysdale  and  some  others  called  for  a  glass 
of  ale  as  they  passed,  going  out  driving.  Then  there  was  Mr. 
Smith  and  them  from  the  boats  about  four  :  and  that  uglj 
one — I  can't  mind  his  name — " 

"  What,  Hardy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  it ;  he  was  here  about  half-past  six,  and — " 

"  What,  Hardy  here  after  hall  1  "  interrupted  Tom,  utterly 
astonished. 

"  Yes,  after  your  dinner  up  at  college.  He's  been  here  two 
or  three  times  lately." 

"  The  deuce  he  has  !  " 

"Yes,  and  he  talks  so  pleasant  to  aunt,  too.     I'm  sure  he 


TflU:    STOKM    RAGES.  177 

is  a  very  nice  gentleman,  after  all.  He  sat  and  talked  to- 
nigl-t  for  half  an  hour.  I  should  think." 

"  What  did  he  talk  about  1 "  said  Tom,  with  a  snoor. 

"  Oh,  he  asked  me  whether  I  had  a  motlier,  and  where  I 
came  from,  and  all  about  my  bringing  up,  and  made  me  feel 
quite  pleasant.  lie  is  so  nice  and  quiet  and  respectful,  not 
like  most  of  you.  I'm  going  to  like  him  very  much,  as  you 
told  me." 

"  I  don't  tell  you  so  now." 

"  But  you  did  say  he  was  your  great  friend." 

"  Well,  he  isn't  that  now." 

"  What,  have  you  quarrelled  1 " 

«  Yes." 

"  Dear,  dear  ;   how  odd  you  gentlemen  are  ! 

"  Why,  it  isn't  a  very  odd  thing  for  men  to  quarrel,  is 
itr' 

""No,  not  in  the  public  room.  They're  always  quarrflling 
there,  over  their  diink  and  the  bagatelle-board  ;  and  Dick 
has  to  turn  them  out.  But  gentlemen  ought  to  know 
better." 

"  They  don't,  you  see,  Patty." 

"  But  what  did  you  quarrel  about  ?  " 

"  Guess." 

"  How  can  I  guess  ?  What  was  it  about  1  " 

"  About  you." 

"  About  me  ! "  she  said,  looking  up  from  her  work  in 
wonder,     "  How  coiild  you  quarrel  about  me  1  " 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  ;  he  said  I  had  no  right  to  come  here. 
You  won't  like  him  after  that,  will  you  Patty  1 " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  Patty,  going  on  with  her 
work,  and  looking  troubled. 

They  sat  still  for  some  minutes.  Evil  thoughts  crowded 
into  Tom's  head.  He  was  in  the  humour  for  thinking  evil 
thoughts,  and,  putting  the  worst  construction  on  Hardy's 
visits,  fancied  he  came  there  as  his  rival.  He  did  not  trust 
himself  to  speak  till  he  had  masterefl  his  precious  discovery, 
and  put  it  away  in  the  back  of  his  heart,  and  weighted  it 
down  there  with  a  good  covering  of  hatred  and  revenge,  to  be 
brought  out  as  occasion  should  serve.  He  was  plunging 
down  rapidly  enough  now  ;  but  he  had  new  motives  for 
making  the  most  of  his  time,  and  never  played  his  cards 
better  or  made  more  progress.  When  a  man  sits  doivn  to 
such  a  game,  the  devil  will  take  good  care  he  sha'n't  want 
cunning  or  strength.  It  was  ten  o'clock  instead  of  nine  be- 
*bre  he  left,  which  he  did  with  a  feeling  of  triumph.  Poor 
Patty  remained  behind,  and  shut  up  the  bar,  while  Dick  was 


178  TOM   BEOWN    AT   OXFOED. 

lockinp;  ihe  front  door,  her  heart  in  a  flutter,  and  her  handa 
shaking.  She  hardly  knew  whether  to  laugh  or  cry  ;  she  felt 
the  change  which  had  come  over  him,  and  was  half  fascinated 
and  half  repelled  by  it. 

Tom  wallvcd  quickly  hack  to  college,  in  a  mood  which  T 
do  not  care  to  describe.  The  only  one  of  his  thoughts  which 
my  readers  need  be  troubled  with,  put  itself  into  some  such 
words  as  these  in  his  head  : — "  So,  it's  Abingdon  fair  next 
Thursday,  and  she  has  half-promised  to  go  with  me.  I  know 
I  can  make  it  certain.  Who'll  be  going  besides  1  Drysdale, 
I'll  be  bound.     I'll  go  and  see  him." 

On  entering  college  he  went  straiglit  to  Drysdale's  rooms, 
and  drank  deeply,  and  played  high  into  the  short  hours  of  the 
night,  but  foimd  no  opportunity  of  speaking. 

Deeper  and  deeper  yet  for  the  next  few  days,  downwards  and 
ever  faster  downwards  he  plunged,  the  light  getting  fainter  and 
ever  fainter  above  his  head.  Little  good  can  come  of  dwelling 
on  those  days.  He  left  off  pulling,  shimned  his  old  friends,  and 
lived  with  the  very  worst  men  he  knew  in  college,  who  were 
ready  enough  to  let  him  share  all  their  brutal  orgies. 

Drysdale,  who  was  often  present,  wondered  at  the  change, 
which  he  saw  plainly  enough.  He  was  sorry  for  it  in  his 
way,  but  it  was  no  business  of  his.  He  began  to  tliink  that 
Brown  was  a  good  enough  fellow  before,  but  would  make  a 
devilish  disagreeable  one  if  he  was  going  to  turn  fast  man. 

At  "  The  Choughs  "  all  went  on  as  if  the  downward  path 
knew  how  to  make  itself  smooth,  Now  that  the  races  were 
over,  and  so  many  other  attractions  going  on  in  Oxford,  very 
few  men  came  in  to  interfere  with  him.  He  was  scarcely  ever 
away  from  Patty's  side,  in  the  evenings  whUe  her  aunt  was 
absent,  and  gained  more  and  more  power  over  her.  He  might 
have  had  some  compassion,  but  that  he  was  spurred  on  by 
hearing  how  Hardy  haunted  the  place  now,  at  times  when  he 
could  not  be  there.  He  felt  that  there  was  an  influence 
struggling  with  his  in  the  girl's  mind  ;  he  laid  it  to  Hardy's 
door,  and  imputed  it  still  more  and  more  to  motives  as  base 
as  his  own.  But  Abingdon  fair  was  coming  on  Thursday. 
^Hien  he  left  "  The  Choughs  "  on  Tuesday  night,  he  had  ex- 
tracted a  promise  from  Patty  to  accompany  him  there,  and 
had  arranged  tlieir  place  of  meeting. 

All  that  remained  to  be  done  was  to  see  if  Drysdale  was 
going.  Somehow  he  felt  a  disinclination  to  go  alone  with 
Patty.  Drysdale  was  the  only  man  of  those  he  was  now 
living  with  to  whom  he  felt  the  leurA  attraction.  In  a  vague 
way  he  clung  to  him  ;  and  though  he  never  faced  the  thouglit 
of  what  he  was  about  fairly,  yet  it  passed  through  his  mLiiil 


THE   STORM   EAGES.  379 

that  even  in  Drysdalo's  company  he  would  he  safer  than  if 
alone.  It  was  all  pitiless,  blind,  wild  work,  without  rudder 
or  compass  ;  the  wish  that  nothing  very  bad  might  come  out 
of  it  all,  however,  came  up  in  spite  of  him  now  and  again, 
and  he  looked  to  Drysdale,  and  longed  to  become  even 
as  he. 

Drysdale  was  going.  He  was  very  reserved  on  the  subject, 
but  at  last  confessed  that  he  was  not  going  alone.  Tom  per- 
sisted. Drysdale  was  too  lazy  and  careless  to  keep  anything 
from  a  man  who  was  bent  on  knowing  it.  In  the  end,  it  was 
arranged  that  he  should  drive  Tom  out  the  next  aftornoon. 
He  did  so.  They  stopped  at  a  small  public-houre  some  two 
miles  out  of  Oxford.  The  cart  was  put  up,  and  after  care- 
fully scanning  the  neighbourhood  they  walked  quickly  to  the 
door  of  a  pretty  retired  cottage.  As  they  entered,  Drysdale 
said, 

"  By  Jove,  I  thought  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  your  friend 
Hardy  at  that  turn." 

"  Friend  !  he's  no  friend  of  mine." 

"  But  didn't  you  see  him  1  " 

"No." 

They  reached  college  again  between  ten  and  eleven,  and 
parted,  each  to  his  own  rooms. 

To  his  surprise,  Tom  found  a  candle  burning  on  his  table. 
Round  the  candle  was  tied  a  piece  of  string,  at  the  end  of 
which  hung  a  note.  Whoever  had  put  it  there  had  clearly 
been  anxious  that  he  should  in  no  case  miss  it  when  he  came 
in.  He  took  it  up,  and  saw  that  it  was  in  Hardy's  hand. 
He  paused,  and  trembled  as  he  stood.  Then  with  an  effort 
he  broke  the  seal  and  read — 

"I  must  speak  once  more.  To-morrow  it  may  be  too  late. 
If  you  go  to  Abingdon  fair  with  her  in  the  company  of 
Drysdale  and  his  mistress,  or,  I  believe,  in  any  com.pany,  you 
will  return  a  scoundrel,  and  she —  ;  in  the  name  of  the  honour 
of  your  mother  and  sister,  in  the  name  of  God,  I  warn  you. 
May  He  help  you  through  it. — Joun  Hardy." 

Here  we  will  drop  the  curtain  for  the  next  hour.  At  the 
end  of  that  time,  Tom  staggered  out  of  his  room,  down  the 
staircase,  across  the  quadrangle,  up  Drysdale's  staircase.  He 
paused  at  the  door  to  gather  some  strength,  ran  his  hands 
through  his  hair,  and  arranged  his  coat  ;  notwithstanding, 
when  he  entered,  Drysdale  started  to  his  feet,  upsetting  Jack 
from  his  comfortable  coil  on  the  sofa. 

"  Why,  Brown,  you're  ill  ;    have  some  brandy,"  he  said, 
to  his  cu])board  for  the  bottle. 
N  2 


180  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

Tom  leant  his  arm  on  the  fireplace  ;  his  head  on  it.  Tho 
other  hand  hung  do^vn  by  his  side,  and  Jack  licked  it,  and 
he  loved  the  dog  as  he  felt  the  caress.  Then  Drysdale  came 
to  his  side  with  a  glass  of  brandy,  which  he  took  and  tossed 
oir  as  though  it  had  been  water.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and 
as  Drysdale  went  back  with  the  bottle,  reached  a  large  arm- 
chair and  sat  himself  down  in  it. 

"  Drysdale,  I  sha'n't  go  with  you  to  Abingdon  fair  to- 
morrow." 

"  Hullo  !  what,  has  the  lovely  Patty  thrown  you  over  1 " 
Baid  Drysdale,  turning  from  the  cupboard,  and  resuming  his 
lounge  on  the  sofa. 

"  No  :  "  he  sank  back  into  the  chair,  on  the  arms  of  which 
liis  elbows  rested,  and  put  his  hands  up  before  nis  face,  pres- 
sing them  against  his  burning  temples.  Drj^sdale  looked  at 
him  hard,  but  said  nothing ;  and  there  was  a  dead  silence 
of  a  minute  or  so,  broken  only  by  Tom's  heavy  breathing, 
which  he  was  labourmg  in  vain  to  control. 

"  No,"  ho  repeated  at  last,  and  the  remaining  words  came 
out  slowly  as  they  were  trying  to  steady  themselves,  "  but, 
by  God,  Drysdale  1  can't  take  her  with  you,  and  that — "  a 
dead  pause. 

"  The  young  lady  you  met  to-night,  eh  1 " 
Tom  nodded,  but  said  nothing. 

"Well,  old  fellow,"  said  Drysdale,  "now  you've  made  up 
your  mind,  I  tell  you,  I'm  devilisli  glad  of  it.     I'm  no  saint, 

as  you  know,  but  1  think  it  would  have  been  a  d d  shame 

if  you  had  taken  her  with  us." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Tom,  and  pressed  his  fingers  tighter  on 
his  forehead  ;  and  he  did  feel  thanMul  for  the  words,  though, 
coming  from  such  a  man,  they  went  into  him  Hke  coals  of 
fire. 

Again  there  was  a  long  pause,  Tom  sitting  as  before. 
Drysdale  got  up,  and  strolled  up  and  down  his  room,  with 
his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  silk-lined  lounging  coat, 
taking  at  each  turn  a  steady  look  at  the  other.  Presently  he 
stopped,  and  took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth.  "  I  say. 
Brown,"  he  said,  after  another  minute's  contemplation  of  the 
figure  before  him,  which  bore  such  an  unmistakable  impress 
of  wretchedness,  that  it  made  him  quite  imcomfortable,  "  why 
don't  you  cut  that  concern  ? " 

"  How  do  you  mean  ? "  said  Tom. 

"  Why  that  '  Choughs  '  business — I'll  be  hargod  if  it  won't 
kill  you,  or  make  a  devil  of  you  before  long,  if  you  go  on 
with  it." 

"  it's  not  far  from  that  now." 


TEE   STORM   RAGES.  181 

"  So  1  see — aiid  I'll  tell  you  what,  you're  not  the  sort  of 
fellow  lo  go  in  for  this  kind  of  thing.  You'd  better  leave  it 
to  cold-blooded  brutes,  like  some  Ave  know — I  needn't  men- 
tion names." 

"  I'm  awfully  ■wretched,  Drysdale ;  I've  been  a  brute  my- 
self to  you  and  everybody  of  late." 

"  Well,  I  own  I  don't  like  the  new  c-;ide  of  you.  Xow 
make  up  your  mind  to  cut  the  -whole  concern,  old  i'eUow,"  ho 
said,  coming  up  goodnaturedly,  and  putting  his  hand  on  Tom's 
shoulder ;  "  it's  hard  to  do,  I  dare  say,  but  you  had  better 
make  a  plunge  and  get  it  over.  There's  wickedness  enough 
going  about  without  your  helping  to  shove  another  one  iiito 
it" 

Tom  groaned  as  he  listened,  but  he  felt  that  the  man  was 
trying  to  help  him  in  his  own  w^ay,  and  according  to  his  light, 
as  Drysdale  went  on  expounding  his  own  curious  code  of 
morality.  When  it  was  ended,  he  shook  Drysdaie's  hand, 
and,  wishing  him  good  niglit,  went  back  to  his  own  rooms. 
The  first  step  upwards  towards  the  light  had  been  made,  for 
he  felt  thoroughly  humbled  before  the  man  on  whom  he  had 
expended  in  his  own  mind  so  much  patronizing  pity  for  the 
last  half-year — whom  he  had  been  fanc^dng  he  was  inliuencing 
for  good. 

During  the  long  hours  of  the  night  the  scenes  of  the  last 
few  houi's,  of  the  last  few  days,  came  back  to  him  and  burnt 
into  his  soul.  The  gidf  yawned  before  him  now  plain  enough, 
open  at  his  feet — black,  ghastly.  He  shuddered  at  it,  won- 
dered if  he  should  even  yet  fall  in,  felt  wildly  about  for 
strength  to  stand  firm,  to  retrace  his  steps  ;  but  found  it  not. 
He  found  not  yet  the  strength  he  was  in  search  of,  but  in  the 
grey  morning  he  wrote  a  short  note  : — 

"  I  shall  not  be  able  to  take  you  to  Abingdon  fair  to-day. 
You  will  not  see  me  perhaps  for  some  days.  I  am  not  well. 
I  am  very  sorry.  Don't  think  tliat  I  am  changed.  Don't  be 
unhappy,  or  I  don't  know  what  I  may  do."  There  was  no 
address  and  no  signature  to  the  note. 

WTien  the  gates  opened  he  hurried  oat  of  the  college,  and, 
having  left  it  and  a  shilling  with  Dick  (whom  lie  found 
clearing  the  yard,  and  much  astonished  at  his  appearance,  and 
who  promised  to  deliver  it  to  Patty  vrith  his  own  hands 
before  eight  o'clock),  he  got  back  again  to  his  own  rooms, 
went  to  bed,  worn  out  in  mind  and  body,  and  sleV't  till  mid- 
uuy. 


182  TOM   BK.OWN  AT   OXFOIID. 

CEAPTEE  XVII. 

NEW     GROUND. 

^Iy  readers  have  now  been  steadily  at  Oxford  for  six  monllis 
without  moving.  Most  people  lind  such  a  spell  of  the  place 
without  a  change  quite  as  much  as  they  care  to  take ;  perhaps 
too,  it  may  do  our  hero  good  to  let  him  alone  for  a  little,  that 
he  may  have  time  to  look  steadily  into  the  pit  which  he  lias 
been  so  near  falling  down,  which  is  still  yawning  awkwardly 
in  his  path ;  moreover,  the  exigencies  of  a  story-teller  must 
lead  him  away  from  home  now  and  then.  Like  the  rest  of 
us,  his  family  must  have  change  of  air,  or  he  has  to  go  off  to 
see  a  friend  properly  married,  or  a  connexion  buried  ;  to  wear 
white  or  black  gloves  with  or  for  some  one,  carrying  such 
sympathy  as  he  can  with  him,  that  so  he  may  come  back 
from  every  journey,  however  short,  with  a  wider  horizon. 
Yes  ;  to  come  back  home  after  every  stage  of  life's  journeying 
with  a  wider  horizon — more  in  sympathy  with  men  and 
nature,  knowing  ever  more  of  the  righteous  and  eternal  laws 
which  govern  them,  and  of  the  righteous  and  loving  will 
which  is  above  all,  and  around  all,  and  beneath  all — this 
must  be  the  end  and  aim  of  all  of  us,  or  we  shall  be  wandering 
about  blindfold,  and  spending  time  and  labour  and  journey- 
money  on  that  which  profiteth  nothing.  So  now  I  must  ask 
my  readers  to  forget  the  old  buildings  and  quadrangles  cf  the 
fairest  of  England's  cities,  the  caps  and  the  gowns,  the  reading 
and  rowing,  for  a  short  sj^ace,  and  take  a  llight  with  me  to 
other  scenes  and  pastures  new. 

The  nights  are  pleasant  in  May,  short  and  pleasant  for 
travel.  We  will  leave  the  ancient  city  asleep,  and  do  oiar 
flight  in  the  night  to  save  time.  Trust  yourselves,  then,  to 
the  story-teller's  aerial  machine.  It  is  but  a  rough  affair,  I 
own,  rough  and  humble,  unfitted  for  high  or  great  flights,  vv'ith 
no  gilded  panels,  or  dainty  cushions,  or  C-springs — not  that 
we  shall  care  about  springs,  by  the  way,  until  we  alight  on 
"terra  firma  again — still,  there  is  much  to  be  learned  in  a 
third-class  carriage  if  we  will  only  not  look  while  in  it  for 
cushions,  and  fine  panels,  and  forty  miles  an  hour  travelling, 
and  will  not  be  shocked  at  our  fellow-passengers  for  being 
weak  in  their  h's  and  smelling  of  fustian.  Mount  in  it,  then, 
you  who  will,  after  this  warning;  the  fares  are  holiday  fares, 
the  tickets  return  tickets.  Take  with  you  nothing  but  the 
poet's  luggage, 

"  A  smile  for  Hope,  a  tear  for  Pain, 

A  breath  to  swell  the  voice  of  Prayer, " 


KPAX   GROUND.  183 

and  may  you  have  a  pleasaut  journey,  for  it  is  time  that  the 
stoker  should  bo  looking  to  his  going  gear  ! 

So  now  we  rise  slowly  in  the  moonlight  from  St.  Ambrose's 
quadrangle,  and,  when  we  are  clear  of  the  clock-tower,  steer 
away  southwards,  over  Oxford  city  and  all  its  sleeping  wisdom 
and  folly,  over  street  and  past  spire,  over  Christ  Church  and 
the  canons'  houses,  and  the  fountain  in  Tom  quad ;  over  St^ 
Aldate's  and  the  river,  along  which  the  moonbeams  lie  in  a 
pathway  of  twinkling  silver,  over  the  railway  sheds — no, 
there  was  then  no  railway,  but  only  the  quiet  fields  and  foot- 
paths of  Hincksey  hamlet.  Well,  no  matter ;  at  any  rate, 
the  hills  beyond,  and  Bagley  "Wood,  were  there  then  as  now  : 
and  over  hills  and  wood  we  rise,  catcliing  the  purr  of  the 
night-jar,  the  trill  of  the  nightingale,  and  the  first  crow  of 
the  earhest  cock-pheasant,  as  he  stretches  his  jewelled  wings, 
conscious  of  his  strength  and  his  beauty,  heedless  of  the 
fellows  of  St.  Jolm's,  who  slumber  within  sight  of  his  perch, 
on  whose  hospitable  board  he  shall  one  day  he,  prone  on  his 
back,  with  fair  larded  breast  turned  upwards  for  the  carving 
knife,  having  crowed  his  last  crow,  lie  knows  it  not ;  what 
matters  it  to  him  ?  If  he  knew  it,  could  a  Bagley  AVood 
cock-pheasant  desire  a  better  ending  ? 

We  pass  over  the  vale  beyond ;  hall  and  hamlet,  church, 
and  meadow,  and  copse,  folded  in  mist  and  shadow  below  us, 
each  hamlet  holding  in  its  bosom  the  materials  of  three- 
volumed  novels  by  the  dozen,  if  we  could  only  pull  off  the 
roofs  of  the  houses  and  look  steadily  into  the  interiors  ;  but 
our  destination  is  farther  yet.  The  faint  white  streak  behind 
the  distant  Chilterns  reminds  us  that  we  have  no  time  for 
gossip  by  the  way ;  May  nights  are  short,  and  the  sun  wdl 
be  up  by  four.  No  matter;  our  journey  will  now  be  soon 
over,  for  the  broad  vale  is  crossed,  and  the  chalk  hills  and 
downs  beyond.  Larks  quiver  up  by  us,  "  higher,  ever  higher," 
hastening  up  to  get  a  first  glimpse  of  the  coming  monarch, 
cai-eless  of  food,  flooding  tbe  fresh  air  with  song.  Steady 
plodding  rooks  labour  along  below  us,  and  lively  starlings 
rush  by  on  the  look-out  for  the  early  worm  ;  lark  and  swallov^^, 
rook  and  starling,  each  on  his  appointed  round.  The  sun 
arises,  and  they  get  them  to  it ;  he  is  up  now,  and  these 
breezy  uplands  over  which  we  hang  are  swimmmg  in  the 
light  of  horizontal  rays,  though  the  shadows  and  mists  still 
lie  on  the  wooded  dells  which  slope  away  southwards. 

Here  let  us  bring  to,  over  the  village  of  Englebourn,  and 
try  to  get  acquainted  with  the  outside  of  the  place  before  the 
good  folk  are  about,  and  we  have  to  go  dov,Ti  among  thsm  and 
their  sayings  and  donigs. 


1S4  TOM   BE  OWN  A.T   OXFOED. 

The  village  lies  on  the  soulhem  slopes  ol'  ihe  Berksliire 
hills,  on  the  opposite  side  to  that  under  which  our  hero  viaa 
horn.  Another  soil  altogether  is  here,  we  remark  in  the  first 
place.  This  is  no  chalk,  this  high  knoU  which  rises  above — 
one  may  almost  say  hangs  over — the  village,  crov7ned  with 
Scotch  firs,  its  sides  tufted  witli  govse  and  heather.  It  is  the 
Hawk's  Lynch,  the  favourite  resort  of  Englebourn  folk,  who 
come  up  for  the  view,  for  the  air,  because  their  fathers  and 
mothers  came  up  before  them,  because  they  carae  up  them- 
selves as  chUdi-en — from  aa  instinct  which  moves  them  all  in 
leisure  hours  and  Sunday  evenings,  when  the  sun  shines  and 
the  birds  sing,  whether  they  care  for  view  or  air  or  not. 
Something  guides  all  their  feet  hilherward  ;  the  ciiildren,  to 
play  hide-und-seck  and  look  for  nests  in  the  gorsc-bushes  ; 
young  men  and  maidens,  to  saunter  and  look  and  talk,  as  they 
will  till  the  world's  end — or  as  long,  at  any  rate,  as  the 
Hawk's  Lynch  and  Englebourn  last — and  to  cut  their  initials, 
inclosed  in  a  true  lover's  knot,  on  the  short  rabbit's  turf ; 
steady  m?xried  couples,  to  plod  along  together  consulting  on 
hard  times  and  growing  fsimilies  ;  even  old  toHerlug  men, 
who  love  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  the  firs,  with  chins  leaning  on 
their  sticks,  prattling  of  days  long  past,  to  any  one  who  will 
listen,  or  looking  silently  with  dim  eyes  into  the  summer  air, 
feeling  perhaps  in  their  spirits  after  a  wider  and  more  peace- 
ful view  which  wdl  soon  open  for  them.  A  common  knoU, 
open  to  all,  up  in  the  silent  air,  well  away  from  every-day 
Englebourn  life,  with  the  Hampshire  range  and  the  distant 
Beacon  Hill  lying  soft  on  the  horizon,  and  nothing  higher 
between  you  and  the  southern  sea,  what  a  blessing  tha 
Hawk's  L}TJch  is  to  the  village  folk,  one  and  all  !  May 
Heaven  and  a  thankless  soil  long  preserve  it  and  them  fi'om 
an  inclosure  under  the  Act ! 

There  is  much  temptation  lying  about,  though,  for  the 
inclosers  of  the  world.  The  rough  common  land  stretches 
over  the  whole  of  the  knoll,  and  down  to  its  base,  and  away 
along  the  hills  behind,  of  which  the  Hawk's  Lynch  is  an 
outlying  spur.  Rough  common  laud,  broken  only  by  pine 
wooils  of  a  few  acres  each  in  extent,  an  occasional  woodman's 
or  squatter's  cottage  and  little  patch  of  attempted  garden. 
But  immediately  below,  and  on  each  liank  of  the  spur,  and 
half-way  up  the  slopes,  come  small  farm  inclosure?,  breaking 
here  and  there  the  belt  of  woodlands,  which  generally  lies 
between  the  rough  wild  uoland,  and  the  cultivated  country 
below.  As  you  stand  on  the  knoll  you  can  see  the  common 
land  just  below  you  at  its  foot  narrow  into  a  mere  road,  with 
a  border  ol  waste  on  each  side,  which  runs  into  Eniriebouiii 


FEW  GROUND.  185 

street.  At  the  end  of  tlie  straggling  village  stands  the  chnrch 
■with  its  square  tower,  a  lofty  grey  stone  building,  with  bits  of 
fine  decorated  architecture  about  it,  but  much  of  churchwarden 
Gothic  superveniag.  The  churchyard  is  large,  and  the  graves, 
as  you  can  see  plainly  even  from  this  distance,  are  all  crowded 
on  the  southern  side.  The  rector's  sheep  are  feeding  in  the 
northern  ptirt,  nearest  to  us,  and  a  small  gate  at  one  corner 
opens  into  his  garden.  The  Ecctory  looks  large  and  comfort- 
able, and  its  grounds  well  cared  for  and  extensive,  with  a 
rookery  of  elms  at  the  lawn's  end.  It  is  the  chief  house  of 
the  place,  for  there  is  no  resident  squire.  The  principal 
street  contains  a  few  shops,  some  dozen,  p)erha[(S,  in  all ;  and 
several  farm  houses  He  a  little  back  from  it,  with  garden  in 
front,  and  yards  and  barns  and  orchards  behind ;  and  there 
are  two  public-houses.  The  other  dwellings  are  mere  cottages, 
and  very  bad  ones  for  the  most  part,  with  lloors  below  the 
level  of  the  street.  Almost  every  house  in  the  village  is 
thatched,  which  adds  to  the  beauty  though  not  to  the  comfort 
of  the  place.  The  rest  of  the  population  who  do  not  live  in 
the  street  are  dotted  about  the  neighbouring  lanes,  chiefly 
towards  the  west,  on  our  right  as  we  look  down  from  the 
Hawk's  Lynch.  On  this  side  the  country  is  more  open,  and 
here  most  of  the  farmers  live,  as  we  may  see  by  the  number 
of  homesteads.  And  there  is  a  small  brook  on  that  side  too, 
which  with  careful  damming  is  made  to  turn  a  mill,  there 
where  you  see  the  clump  of  poplars.  On  our  left  as  we  look 
down,  the  country  to  the  east  of  the  village  is  thickly  wooded  ; 
but  we  can  see  that  there  is  a  village  green  on  that  side,  and 
a  few  scattered  cottages,  the  farthest  of  which  stands  looking 
out  like  a  little  white  eye,  from  the  end  of  a  dense  copee, 

Eeyond  it  there  is  no  sign  of  habitation  for  some  two  miles ; 
then  you  can  see  the  tall  chimneys  of  a  great  house,  and  a 
well-timbered  park  round  it.  The  Grange  is  not  in  Engle- 
bourn  parish — happily  for  that  parish,  one  is  sorry  to  remark. 
It  must  be  a  very  bad  scpiire  who  does  not  do  more  good 
than  harm  by  living  in  a  country  village.  But  there  are  very 
bad  squires,  and  the  owner  of  the  Grange  is  one  of  them. 
He  is,  however,  for  the  most  part,  an  absentee,  so  that  M'e  are 
little  concerned  with  him,  and  in  fact,  have  only  to  notice 
this  one  of  his  bad  habits,  that  he  keeps  that  long  belt  of 
woodlands,  which  runs  into  Englebourn  parish,  and  comes 
almost  up  to  the  village,  full  of  hares  and  pheasants,  lie 
has  only  succeeded  to  the  property  some  three  or  four  years, 
and  yet  the  head  of  game  on  the  estate,  and  above  all  in  the 
woods,  has  trebled  or  quadrupled.  Pheasants  by  hundreds 
£je  reared  under  hens,  from  eggs  bought  in  Lond^-n,  and  riin 


186  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

about  tlie  kee]icrs'  houses  as  tame  as  barn-door  fowls  all  the 
summer.  When  the  first  party  comes  down  lor  the  first 
haltue  early  in  October,  it  is  often  as  much  as  the  beaters  can 
do  to  persuade  these  pampered  fowls  that  they  are  wild  game, 
whose  duty  it  is  to  get  up,  and  fly  away,  and  be  shot  at. 
However,  they  soon  learn  more  of  the  world — such  of  them, 
at  least,  as  are  not  slain — and  are  unmistakable  wild  birds 
in  a  few  days.  Then  they  take  to  roosting  farther  from  their 
old  haunts,  more  in  the  outskirts  of  the  woods,  and  the  time 
comes  for  others  besides  the  squu-e's  guests  to  take  their 
education  in  hand,  and  teach  pheasants  at  least  that  they  are 
no  native  British  birds.  These  are  a  wild  set,  living  scattered 
ab  jut  the  wild  country  ;  turf-cutters,  broom-makers,  squatters, 
with  indefinite  occupations  and  nameless  habits,  a  race  hated 
of  keepers  and  constables.  These  have  increased  and  flou- 
rislied  of  late  years  ;  and,  notwithstandiug  the  imprisonments 
and  transportations  M-hich  deprive  them  periodically  of  the 
most  enterprising  members  of  their  community,  one  and  all 
give  thanks  for  the  day  when  the  owner  of  the  Grange  took 
to  pheasant  breeding.  If  the  demoralization  stopped  with 
them,  little  harm  might  come  of  it,  as  they  would  steal  fowls 
in  the  homesteads  if  there  were  no  pheasants  in  the  woods — 
which  latter  are  less  dangerous  to  get,  and  worth  more  when 
gotten.  But,  unhappily,  this  metliod  of  earning  a  livelihood 
has  strong  attractions,  and  is  catching  ;  and  the  cases  of  farm 
labourers  who  get  into  trouble  about  game  are  more  frequent 
season  by  season  in  the  neighbouring  parishes,  and  Eiigle- 
bourn  is  no  better  than  the  rest.  And  the  men  are  not  likely 
to  be  nmch  discouraged  from  these  practices,  or  taught  better 
b}'^  the  farmers  ;  for,  if  there  is  one  thing  more  than  another 
that  drives  that  sturdy  set  of  men,  the  Euglebourn  yeomen, 
into  a  frenzy,  it  is  talk  of  the  game  in  the  Grange  covers. 
Not  that  they  dislike  spurt  ;  they  like  it  too  well,  and,  moie- 
over,  have  been  used  to  their  fair  share  of  it.  For  the  late 
squire  left  the  game  entirely  in  their  hands.  "  You  know 
best  how  much  game  your  laud  will  carry  without  serious 
damage  to  the  crops,"  he  used  to  say.  "  I  like  to  show  my 
friends  a  fair  day's  sport  when  they  are  with  me,  and  to  have 
enough  game  to  su]iply  the  liouse  and  make  a  few  presents. 
Beyond  that  it  is  no  affair  of  mine.  You  can  coui'se  whenever 
you  like  ;  and  let  me  know  when  you  want  a  day's  shooting, 
and  you  shall  have  it."  Under  this  system  the  yeomen 
became  keen  sportsmen  ;  they  and  all  their  labourers  took  an 
interest  in  preserving,  and  the  whole  district  would  have 
risen  on  a  poacher.  The  keeper's  place  became  a  sinecure, 
and  the  squire  had  as  much  game  as  he  wanted  without 


JiTRW   GROUND.  187 

expense,  and  was,  moreover,  the  most  popular  man  in  the 
county.  Even  after  the  new  man  came,  and  all  was  changed, 
the  mere  revocation  of  their  sporting  Ubertics,  and  the  inc-roase 
of  game,  unpopular  as  these  things  were,  would  not  alouo 
have  made  tlie  farmers  so  bitter,  and  have  raised  that  sense 
of  outraged  justice  in  them.  But  with  these  changes  came  in 
a  custom  new  in  the  country — the  custom  of  selling  the  game. 
At  first  the  report  was  not  believed  ;  but  soou  it  became 
notorious  that  no  head  of  game  from  the  Grange  estates  was 
ever  given  away,  that  not  only  did  the  tenants  never  get 
a  brace  of  bii'ds  or  a  hare,  or  the  labourers  a  rabbit,  but  not 
one  of  tlie  gentlemen  who  helped  to  kill  the  game  ever  found 
any  of  the  bag  in  his  dog-cart  after  the  day's  sliooting.  iNTa}', 
so  shameless  had  the  system  become,  and  so  highly  was  the 
art  of  turning  the  game  to  account  cultivated  at  the  Grange, 
that  the  keepers  sold  powder  and  shot  to  any  of  the  guests 
who  had  emptied  their  own  belts  or  llasks  at  something  over 
the  market  retail  price.  The  light  cart  drove  to  the  market- 
town  twice  a  week  in  the  season,  loaded  heavily  with  game,  Ijut 
more  heavily  witli  the  hatred  and  scorn  of  the  farmers  ;  and,  if 
deep  and  bitter  curses  could  break  patent  axles  or  necks,  the 
new  squire  and  his  game-cart  would  not  long  have  vexed  the 
country-side.  As  it  was,  not  a  man  but  his  own  tenants 
would  salute  him  in  the  market-place ;  and  these  repaid 
themselves  for  the  unwilling  courtesy  by  bitter  reliections  on 
a  Sijuire  who  was  mean  enough  to  pay  his  butcher's  and 
poulterer's  bill  out  of  their  pockets. 

Alas,  that  the  manly  instinct  of  sport  which  is  so  strong  in 
all  of  us  Englishmen — which  sends  Oswell's  single-handed 
against  the  mightiest  beasts  that  walk  the  earth,  and  takes 
the  poor  cockney  journeyman  out  a  ten  miles'  walk  almost 
before  daylight  on  the  rare  summer  holiday  mornings,  to 
angle  with  rude  tackle  in  reservoir  or  canal — should  be 
di-agged  through  such  mire  as  this  in  many  an  English  shire 
in  our  day.  If  English  landlords  want  to  go  on  shooting 
game  much  longer,  they  must  give  up  selling  it.  Eor  if 
selling  game  l^ecomes  the  rule,  and  not  the  exception  (as  it 
seems  likely  to  do  before  long),  good-bye  to  sport  in  England. 
Every  man  who  loves  his  country  more  than  his  pleasures  or 
his  pocket — and,  thank  God,  that  includes  the  great  majoiity 
of  us  yet,  however  much  we  may  delight  in  gun  and  rod,  1  it 
any  demagogue  in  the  land  say  what  he  pleases — will  cry, 
"  Down  Avith  it,"  and  br^d  a  liand  to  put  it  down  for  ever. 

But,  to  return  to  our  perch  on  the  Hawk's  Lynch  above 
Englebourn  village.  The  rector  is  the  fourth  of  his  race  who 
hci'is  tlie  family  Living — a  kind,  easy-going,  gentlemanly  old 


188  TOM   BROWN   AT  OXPORD, 

mar,  a  Doctor  of  Divinity,  as  becomes  his  position,  though 
he  only  went  into  orders  because  there  was  the  hving  ready 
for  him.  In  his  day  he  had  been  a  good  magistrate  and 
neiglibour,  living  with  and  much  in  the  same  way  as,  the 
squires  round  about.  But  his  contemporaries  had  dropped 
oli"  one  by  one ;  his  own  health  had  long  been  failing ;  his 
wife  was  dead  ;  and  the  young  generation  did  not  seek  him. 
His  work  and  the  parish  had  no  real  hold  on  him  ;  so  he  had 
nothing  to  fall  back  on,  and  had  become  a  coniirmed  invaUd, 
seldom  leaving  the  house  and  garden,  even  to  go  to  church, 
and  thinking  more  of  his  dinner  and  his  health  than  oi  all 
other  things  in  earth  or  heaven. 

The  only  child  who  remained  at  homo  with  him  was  a 
daughter,  a  girl  of  nineteen  or  thereabouts,  whose  acquaintance 
we  shall  make  presently,  and  who  was  doing  all  that  a  good 
heart  and  sound  head  prompted  in  nursing  an  old  h^^^ochon- 
driac,  and  filling  his  place  in  the  parish.  But  though  the  old 
man  was  weak  and  selfish,  he  was  kind  in  his  ■waj^,  and  ready 
to  give  freely  or  to  do  anything  which  his  daughter  suggested 
for  the  good  of  his  people,  provided  the  trouble  were  taken  oft 
his  shoulders.  In  the  year  before  our  tale  opens;,  he  had 
allowed  some  thirty  acres  of  his  glebe  to  be  parcelled  out  in 
allotments  amongst  the  poor ;  and  his  daughter  spent  almost 
what  she  pleased  in  clothing-clubs,  and  sick-clubs,  and  the 
school,  without  a  word  from  him.  "Whenever  he  did  remon- 
strate, she  managed  to  get  what  she  wanted  out  of  the  house- 
money,  or  her  ovm  allowance. 

We  must  make  acquaintance  with  such  other  of  the  inha- 
bitants as  it  concerns  us  to  know  in  the  coui'se  of  the  story ; 
for  it  is  broad  daylight,  and  the  villagers  will  be  astir  dii'ectly. 
Folk  who  go  to  bed  before  nine,  after  a  hard  day's  work,  get 
into  the  habit  of  turning  out  soon  after  the  sun  calls  them.  So 
now,  descending  from  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  we  will  alight  at  the 
east  end  of  Englebourn,  opposite  the  little  white  cottage  which 
looks  out  at  the  end  of  the  great  wood,  near  the  village  green. 

8oon  after  five  on  that  bright  Sunday  morning,  Harry 
Winburn  unbolted  the  door  of  his  mother's  cottage,  and 
step])ed  oi;t  in  his  shii't-sleeves  on  to  the  little  Avalk  in  fi'ont, 
paved  with  pebbles.  Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  will  recog- 
nise the  name  of  an  old  acquaintance,  and  wonder  how  he  got 
here;  so  let  us  explain  at  once.  Soon  after  our  hero  went  to 
school,  Harry's  father  had  died  of  a  fever.  He  had  been  a 
journeyman  blacksmith,  and  in  the  receipt,  consequently,  of 
rather  better  wages  than  generally  fall  to  the  lot  of  the 
peasantry,  but  not  enoiigh  to  leave  much  of  a  margin  over 
cuTJ-ent  expenditiu'e.     JMoreover,  the  Winburns  h-id  always 


NF.W    GROUND  189 

been  open-handed  with  whatever  money  they  had ;  so  tliat  all  he 
left  for  his  widow  and  child,  of  worldly  goods,  was  their  "  few 
sticks  "  of  furniture,  £5  in  the  savings'  bank,  and  the  money 
from  his  burial-club,  which  was  not  more  than  enough  to  give 
him  a  creditable  funeral — that  object  of  honourable  ambition 
to  all  the  independent  poor.  He  left,  hoAvever,  another  in- 
heritance to  them,  which  is  in  price  above  rubies,  neither  shall 
silver  be  named  in  comparison  thereof, — the  inheritance  of 
an  honest  name,  of  which  his  widow  was  proud,  and  which 
was  not  likely  to  suffer  in  her  hands. 

After  the  funeral,  she  removed  to  Engleboum,  her  own 
native  village,  and  kept  her  old  father's  house  till  his  death. 
He  was  one  of  the  woodmen  to  the  Grange,  and  lived  in  the 
cottage  at  the  corner  of  the  wood  in  which  his  work  lay. 
When  he,  too,  died,  hard  times  came  on  Widow  Winbui-n. 
The  steward  allowed  her  to  keep  on  the  cottage.  The  rent 
was  a  sore  burthen  to  her,  but  she  would  sooner  have  starved 
than  leave  it.  Parish  relief  was  out  of  the  question  for  her 
father's  child  and  her  husband's  widow  ;  so  she  turned  her 
hand  to  every  odd  job  wliich  offered,  and  went  to  work  in  tlxe 
fields  when  nothing  else  could  be  had.  WTienever  there  was 
sickness  in  the  place,  she  was  an  untiring  nurse  ;  and,  at  one 
time,  for  some  nine  months,  she  took  the  office  of  postman, 
and  walked  daily  some  nine  miles  through  a  severe  winter. 
The  fatigue  and  exposure  had  broken  down  her  health,  and 
made  her  an  old  woman  before  her  time.  At  last,  in  a  lucky 
hour,  the  Doctor  came  to  hear  of  her  praiseworthy  struggles, 
and  gave  her  the  Eectory  washing,  which  had  made  her  life 
a  comparatively  easy  one  again. 

During  all  this  time  her  poor  neighbours  had  stood  by  her 
as  the  poor  do  stand  by  one  another,  helping  her  in  number- 
less small  ways,  so  that  she  had  been  able  to  realize  the  great 
object  of  her  life,  and  keep  Harry  at  school  till  he  was  nearly 
fourteen.  By  this  time  he  had  learned  all  that  the  village 
pedagogue  could  teacli,  and  iiad  in  fact  become  an  object  of 
mingled  pride  and  jealousy  to  that  worthy  man,  who  had  his 
misgivings  lest  Harry's  fame  as  a  scholar  should  eclipse  his 
own  before  many  years  were  over. 

Mrs.  Winburn's  character  was  so  good,  that  no  sooner  was 
her  son  ready  for  a  place  than  a  place  was  ready  for  him  ;  ho 
stepped  at  once  into  the  dignity  of  carter's  boy,  and  his 
earnings,  when  added  to  his  mother's,  made  them  comfortable 
enough.  Of  course  she  was  wrapped  up  in  him,  and  believed 
that  there  was  no  such  boy  in  the  parish.  And  indeed  she 
was  nearer  the  truth  than  most  mothers,  for  he  soon  grew  into 
a  famons  specimen  of  a  countryman  j  taU  and  lithe,  full  of 


190  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

nervous  strength,  and  not  yet  howed  down  or  stiffened  by  the 
constant  toil  of  a  labourer's  daily  nfe.  In  these  matters,  how- 
ever, he  had  rivals  in  the  village  ;  but  in  intellectual  accom- 
plishments he  was  unrivalled.  He  was  full  of  learning 
according  to  the  village  standard,  could  write  and  cipher  well, 
was  fond  of  reading  such  book's  as  came  in  his  way,  and 
spoke  his  native  English  almost  without  an  accent.  He  is 
one-and-twenty  at  the  time  when  our  story  takes  him  up,  a 
thoroughly  skilled  labourer,  the  best  hedger  and  ditcher  in 
the  parish  ;  and,  when  his  blood  is  up,  he  can  shear  twenty 
sheep  in  a  day,  without  razing  the  skin,  or  mow  for  sixteen 
hours  at  a  stretch,  Avith  rests  of  half  an  hour  for  meals  twice 
in  the  day. 

Harry  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  for  a  minute,  as  he 
stood  outside  the  cottage  drinking  in  the  fresh  pure  air,  laden 
with  the  scent  of  the  honeysuckle  which  he  had  trained  over 
the  porch,  and  listening  to  the  chorus  of  linnets  and  fmches 
from  the  copse  at  the  back  of  the  house  ;  and  then  set  about 
the  household  duties,  which  he  always  made  it  a  point  of 
honour  to  attend  to  himself  on  Sundays.  First  he  unshuttered 
the  little  lattice- window  of  the  room  on  the  ground- floor ;  a 
simple  operation  enough,  for  the  shutter  was  a  mere  Avooden 
flap,  which  was  closed  over  the  window  at  night,  and  bolted 
with  a  wooden  bolt  on  the  outside,  and  thrown  back  against  the 
wall  in  the  daytime.     Any  one  who  would  could  have  opened 
it  at  any  moment  of  the  night ;  but  the  poor  sleep  sound 
without  bolts.     Then  he  took  the  one  old  bucket  of  the  esta- 
blishment, and  strode  away  to  the  well  on  the  village  green, 
and  fdled  it  with  clear  cold  water,  doing  the  same  kind  office 
for  the  vessels  of  two  or  three  rosy  little  damsels  and  boys,  of 
ages  varying  fiom  ten  to  fourteen,  who  were  already  astir,  and 
to  whom  the  winding-up  of  the  parish  chain  and  bucket  would 
have  been  a  work  of  difficulty.     Returning  to  the  cottage,  he 
proceeded  to  fill  his  mother's  kettle,  sweep  the  hearth,  strike 
a  Ught,  and  make  up  the  fire  with  a  faggot  from  the  little 
stack  in  the  corner  of  the  garden.     Then  lie  hauled  the  three- 
legged  round  table  before  the  fire,  and  dusted   it  carefully 
over,  and  laid  out  the  black  japan  tea-tray  with  two  delf  cups 
and  saucers  of  gorgeous  pattern,  and   diminutive   plates  to 
match,  and  placed  the  sugar  and  slop  basins,  the  big  loaf  and 
small  piece  of  salt  butter,  in  their  accustomed  places,  and  the 
little  black  teapot  on  the  hob  to  get  properly  warm.     There 
was  little  more  to  be  done  indoors,  for  the  furniture  was  scanty 
enough  ;    but   everything  in  turn    received  its   fair  share  of 
attention,  and  the  little  room,  with  its  sunken  tiled  floor  and 
yellow-washed   walls,    looked   cheerfid   and  homely.      Then 


ENGLEBOUEN   VILLAGE.  191 

Harry  turned  his  attention  to  the  shed  of  his  own  contriving; 
which  stood  beside  the  faggot-stack,  and  from  which  expostu- 
latory  and  plaintive  grunts  liad  been  issuing  ever  since  liis  first 
appearance  at  the  door,  telhng  of  a  faithful  and  useful  friend 
who  was  sharp  set  on  Sunday  mornings,  and  desired  his  poor 
breakfast,  and  to  be  dismissed  for  the  day  to  piclc  up  tlie  rest 
of  liis  livelihood  with  his  brethren  porkers  of  the  village  on 
the  green  and  in  the  lanes.  Harry  served  out  to  the  porker 
the  poor  mess  which  the  wash  of  the  cottage  and  the  odds 
and  ends  of  the  little  garden  afforded  ;  which  that  virtuous 
animal  forthwith  began  to  discuss  with  both  fore-feet  in  the 
trough — by  way,  probably,  of  adding  to  the  flavour — while  Ms 
master  scratched  him  gently  between  the  ears  and  on  the  back 
with  a  short  stick  till  the  repast  was  concluded.  Then  he 
opened  the  door  of  the  stye,  and  the  grateful  animal  rushed 
out  into  the  lane,  and  away  to  the  green  with  a  joyful  squeal 
and  flirt  of  his  hind-quarters  in  the  air ;  and  llarry,  after 
picking  a  bunch  of  wall-flowers,  and  pansics,  and  hyacinths, 
a  line  of  which  flowers  skirted  the  narrow  garden  walk,  and 
putting  them  in  a  long-necked  glass  which  he  took  from 
the  mantel-piece,  proceeded  to  his  morning  ablutions,  ample 
materials  for  which  remained  at  the  bottom  of  the  family 
bucket,  which  he  had  put  down  on  a  little  bench  by  the  side 
of  the  porch.  These  finished,  he  retired  indoors  to  shave  and 
dress  himself. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

ENQLEBOURN    VILLAGE. 

Dame  Winburx  was  not  long  after  her  son,  and  they  sat  down 
together  to  breakfast  in  their  best  Sunday  clothes — she,  in  plain 
large  white  cap,  which  covered  all  but  a  line  of  grey  hair, 
a  black  stuff  go"\vn  reaching  to  neck  and  wrists,  and  small 
silk  neckerchief  put  on  like  a  shawl ;  a  thin,  almost  gaunt 
old  woman,  whom  the  years  had  not  used  tenderly,  and  wLo 
showed  marks  of  theu"  usage — but  a  resolute,  high-courage<l 
soul,  who  had  met  hard  times  in  the  face,  and  could  meet 
them  again  if  need  were.  She  spoke  in  broad  Berkshire,  and 
was  otherwise  a  homely  body,  but  self-possessed  and  without 
a  shade  of  real  vulgarity  in  her  composition. 

The  widow  looked  with  some  anxiety  at  Harry  as  he  took 
his  seat.  Although  something  of  a  rustic  dandy,  of  late  ho 
had  not  been  so  careful  in  the  matter  of  dress  as  usual  ;  but, 
in  consequence  of  her  reproaches,  on  this  Sunday  there  was 


192  TOM   BKOWN  AT   OXFORD. 

nothing  to  complain  of.  His  black  velveteen  shooting-coat 
and  cotton  plush  waistcoat,  his  brown  corduroy  knee-breeches 
and  gaiters,  sat  on  him  well,  and  gave  the  world  assurance  of 
a  well-to-do  man,  for  few  of  the  Englebourn  labourers  rose 
above  smock-frocks  and  fustian  trousers.  He  wore  a  blue 
bird's-eye  handkerchief  round  his  neck,  and  his  shirt,  though 
coarse  in  texture,  was  as  white  as  the  sun  and  the  best 
laundress  in  Englebourn  could  manage  to  bleach  it.  There 
was  nothing  to  find  fault  with  in  his  dress  therefore,  but  still 
his  mother  did  not  feel  quite  comfortable  as  she  took  stealthy 
glances  at  him.  Harry  was  naturally  rather  a  reserved  fellow, 
and  did  not  make  much  conversation  himself,  and  his  mother 
felt  a  little  embarrassed  on  this  particular  morning. 

It  was  not,  therefore,  until  Dame  Winburn  had  finished 
her  first  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  and  had  sipped  the  greater 
part  of  her  second  dish  of  tea  out  of  her  saucer,  that  she 
broke  silence. 

"  I  minded  thy  business  last  night,  Harry,  when  T  wur  up 
at  the  Rectory  about  the  washin'.  It's  my  belief  as  thou'lt  get 
t'oth'M  'lotraentnext  quarter-day.  The  Doctor  spoke  very  kind 
about  it,  and  said  as  how  he  heer'd  as  high  a  character  o'  thee, 
young  as  thee  bist,  as  of  are'  a  man  in  the  parish,  and  as  how 
he  WTir  set  on  lettin'  the  lots  to  thaay  as'd  do  best  by  'em  ; 
only  he  said  as  the  farmers  went  agin  givin'  more  nor  an 
acre  to  any  man  as  worked  for  them,  and  the  Doctor,  you  see, 
he  don't  like  to  go  altogether  agin  the  vestry  folk." 

"What  business  is  it  o'  theirs,"  said  Harry,  "so  long  as 
they  get  their  own  work  done  ?  There's  scarce  one  on  'em  as 
hasn't  more  land  already  nor  he  can  keep  as  should  be,  and 
for  all  that  they  want  to  snap  up  every  bit  as  falls  vacant,  so 
as  no  poor  man  shall  get  it." 

"  'Tis  mostly  so  with  them  as  has,"  said  his  mother,  with  a 
half  puzzled  look  ;  "  Scriptur  says  as  to  them  shall  be  given, 
and  they  shall  have  more  aliundant."  Dame  Winburn  spoke 
hesitatingly,  and  looked  doubtfully  at  Harry,  as  a  person  who 
has  shot  with  a  strange  gun,  and  knows  not  what  effect  the 
bolt  may  have.  Harry  was  brought  up  all  standing  by  this 
unexpected  quotation  of  his  mother's ;  but,  after  thinking 
for  a  few  moments  while  he  cut  himself  a  slice  of  bread, 
replied  : — 

"  It  don't  say  as  those  shall  have  more  that  can't  use  what 
they've  got  already.  'Tis  a  deal  more  like  JSTaboth's  vineyard 
for  aught  as  I  can  see.  But  'tis  little  odds  to  me  which  way 
it  goes." 

"  How  canst  talk  so,  Harry  1 "  said  his  mother,  reproach- 
fully ;   "  thou  know'st  thou  wast  set  on  it  last  fall,  like  a 


ENGLEBOUKN   VILLAGE.  193 

wapse  on  sugar.  AVliy,  scarce  a  day  past  but  thou  wast  up  to 
tlie  Rectory,  to  see  the  Doctor  about  it ;  and  now  thou'rt  like 
to  get  th'  lotment  thou'lt  not  go  anyst  'un." 

Harry  looked  out  at  the  open  door,  without  answering.  It 
was  quite  true  that,  in  the  last  autumn,  he  had  been  very 
anxious  to  get  as  large  an  allotment  as  he  could  into  his  own 
hands,  and  that  he  had  been  for  ever  up  towards  the  Rectory, 
but  perhaps  not  always  on  the  allotment  business.  He  was 
naturally  a  self-reliant,  shrewd  fellow,  and  felt  that  if  he 
could  put  his  hand  on  three  or  four  acres  of  land,  he  could 
soon  make  himself  mdependent  of  the  farmers.  He  knew 
that  at  harvest-times,  and  whenever  there  was  a  pinch  for 
good  labourers,  they  would  be  glad  enough  to  have  him  ; 
while  at  other  times,  with  a  few  acres  of  his  own,  he  would 
be  his  own  master,  and  could  do  much  better  for  himself.  So 
he  had  put  his  name  down  first  on  the  Doctor's  list,  taken  the 
largest  lot  he  could  get,  and  worked  it  so  well,  that  his  crops, 
amongst  otliers,  had  been  a  sort  of  village-show  last  harvest- 
time.  Many  of  the  neighbouring  allotments  stood  out  in  sad 
contrast  to  those  of  Harry  and  the  more  energetic  of  the 
peasantry,  and  lay  by  the  side  of  these  latter,  only  half 
worked  and  full  of  weeds,  and  the  rent  was  never  ready.  It 
was  worse  than  useless  to  let  matters  go  on  thus,  aiid  the 
question  arose,  what  was  to  be  done  with  the  neglected  lots. 
Harry,  and  all  the  men  like  him,  applied  at  once  for  them  ; 
and  their  eagerness  to  get  them  had  roused  some  natural 
jealousy  amongst  the  farmers,  who  began  to  foresee  that  the 
new  system  might  shortly  leave  them  with  none  but  the  worst 
labourers.  So  the  vestry  had  pressed  on  the  Doctor,  as  Dame 
Winburn  said,  not  to  let  any  man  have  more  than  an  acre,  or 
an  acre  and  a  half ;  and  the  weU-meaning,  easy-going,  invalid 
old  man  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  what  to  do.  So  here  was 
May  come  again,  and  the  neglected  lots  were  still  in  the 
nominal  occu])ation  of  the  idlers.  The  Doctor  got  no  rent, 
and  was  annoyed  at  the  partial  failure  of  a  scheme  which  he 
had  not  indeed  origmated,  but  for  which  he  had  taken  much 
credit  to  himself.  The  negligent  occupiers  grumbled  that 
they  were  not  allowed  a  drawback  for  manure,  and  that  no 
pigstyes  were  put  up  for  them.  '*  'Twas  allers  understood  so," 
tliey  maintained,  "  and  they'd  never  ha'  took  to  the  lots  but 
for  that."  The  good  men  grumbled  that  it  would  be  too  late 
now  for  them  to  do  more  than  clean  the  lots  of  weeds  this 
year.  The  farmers  grumbled  that  it  was  always  understood 
no  man  should  have  more  than  one  lot.  The  poor  rector 
bad  led  his  flock  into  a  miry  place  with  a  vengeance.  Peojilo 
who  cannot  make  up  their  minds  breed  trouble  in  other  place* 

0 


194  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

besides  covmtry  villages.  However  quiet  and  out-of-the-way 
tlie  place  may  be,  there  is  always  some  quasi  public  topic  which 
stands,  to  the  rural  Englishman,  in  the  ]ilace  of  treaty,  oj 
budget,  or  reform-bill.  So  the  great  allotment  question,  for 
the  time,  was  that  which  exercised  the  minds  of  tlie  inha- 
bitants of  lilnglebourn  ;  and  until  lately  no  one  had  taken  a 
keener  mtercst  in  it  than  Harry  Winburn.  But  that  interest 
had  now  much  abated,  and  so  Harry  looked  through  the 
cottage-door,  instead  of  answering  his  mother. 

"  'Tis  my  belief  as  you  mod  amost  hev  it  for  the  axin'," 
Dame  Winburn  began  again,  when  she  found  that  he  would 
not  re-open  the  subject  himself.  "  The  young  missus  said  as 
much  to  me  herself  last  night.  Ah  !  to  be  sure,  thmgs  'd  go 
better  if  she  had  the  guidin'  on  'em." 

"  I'm  not  going  after  it  any  more,  mother.  We  can  keep 
the  bits  o'  sticks  here  tog'^ther  witliout  it  while  you  be  alive ; 
and  if  anything  was  to  happen  to  you,  I  don't  tliink  I  should 
stay  in  these  parts.  Eut  it  don't  matter  what  becomes  o' 
me  ;  I  can  earn  a  liveliliood  anywhere." 

Dame  Wuiburn  paused  a  moment  before  answering,  to 
subdue  her  vexation,  and  then  said,  "How  can  'ee  let  han- 
kerin'  arter  a  lass  take  the  heart  out  o'  thee  so  1  Hold  up  thy 
head,  and  act  a  bit  measterful.  The  more  thou  makest  o' 
thyself,  the  more  lilce  thou  art  to  win." 

"  Did  you  hear  aught  of  her,  mother,  last  night  ? "  replied 
Harry,  taking  advantage  of  this  ungracious  opening  to  sjieak 
of  the  subject  which  was  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"  1  hecr'd  she  wur  goin'  on  well,"  said  his  motlier. 

"  No  likelihood  of  her  comin'  home  1 " 

"  Not  as  I  could  make  out.  ^\^iy,  she  hevn't  been  gone 
not  four  months.  Now,  do  ee'  pluck  up  a  bit,  Harry ;  and 
be  more  like  thyseK." 

"  Why,  mother,  I've  not  missed  a  day's  work  since  Christ- 
mas ;  so  there  ain't  much  to  find  faull  with." 

"  Nay,  Harry,  'tisn't  thy  work.  Thou  wort  always  good  at 
thy  work,  praise  God.  Thou'rt  thy  father's  own  son  for  that. 
But  thou  dostn't  keep  about  like,  and  take  thy  j)lace  wi'  the 
lave  on  'em  since  Christmas.  Thou  look'st  hagged  at  times, 
and  folk'll  see't,  and  talk  aborft  thee  afore  long." 

"  Let  'em  talk.  I  mind  theii-  talk  no  more  than  last  year's 
wind,"  said  Harry,  abruptly. 

"  But  thy  old  mother  does,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with 
eyes  full  of  pride  and  love  ;  and  so  Harrj',  who  was  a  right  good 
son,  began  to  inquu-e  what  it  was  which  was  specially  weighing 
on  his  mother's  mind,  determined  to  do  anj^thing  in  reason  to 
re-placo  her  on  the  little  harmless  social  pinnacle  from  which 


ENGLEBOURN   VILLAGE.  105 

she  was  wont  to  look  down  on  all  the  other  mothers  and  sons 
of  the  parish.  He  soon  found  out  that  her  present  grievance 
arose  from  his  having  neglected  his  place  as  ringer  of  the 
heavy  bell  in  the  village  peal  on  the  two  preceding  Sundxiys  ; 
and,  as  this  post  was  in  some  sort  the  corresponding  one  to 
stroke  of  the  boat  at  Oxford,  her  anxiety  was  reasonable 
enough.  So  Harry  promised  to  go  to  ringing  in  good  time  that 
morning,  and  then  set  about  little  odds  and  ends  of  jobs 
till  it  would  be  time  to  start.  iJame  Winburn  went  to  hei 
cooking  and  other  household  duties,  which  were  pretty  well 
got  under  when  her  son  took  his  hat  and  started  for  the 
belfry.  She  stood  at  the  door  with  a  half-peeled  potato  in 
one  hand,  shading  her  eyes  with  the  other,  as  she  watched 
him  striding  along  the  raised  footpath  under  the  elms,  when 
the  sound  of  light  footsteps  and  pleasant  voices  coming  up 
from  the  other  direction  made  her  turn  round  and  drop  a 
curtsey  as  the  rector's  daughter  and  another  young  lady 
stopped  at  her  door. 

"  Good  morning,  Betty,"  said  the  former  ;  "  hero's  a  bright 
Sunday  morning  at  last.,  isn't  it  1 " 

"  'Tis  indeed,  miss  ;  but  where  hev'ee  been  to  ? " 

"  Oh,  we've  only  been  for  a  little  walk  before  school-time. 
This  is  my  cousin,  Betty.  She  hasn't  been  at  Englebourn 
since  she  was  quite  a  child ;  so  I've  been  taking  her  to  the 
Hawk's  LjTich  to  see  our  view." 

"  And  you  can't  think  how  I  have  enjoyed  it,"  said  her 
cousin  ;  "  it  is  so  still  and  beautiful." 

"  I've  heer'd  say  as  there  ain't  no  such  a  place  for  thretty 
mile  round,"  said  Betty,  proudly.  "  But  do'ee  come  in,  tho', 
and  sit'ee  down  a  bit,"  she  added,  bustling  inside  her  door, 
and  beginning  to  rub  down  a  chair  with  her  apron ;  "  'tis  a 
smart  step  for  gentlefolk  to  walk  afore  chui'ch."  Eotty'a 
notions  of  the  waUving  powers  of  gentlefolk  woro  very 
limited. 

"  No,  thank  you,  we  must  bo  getting  on,"  said  Miss  Winter; 
"  but  how  lovely  your  llowers  are  !  Look,  Mary,  did  you  ever 
see  such  double  pansies  1  We've  nothing  like  them  at  the 
Rectory." 

"  Do'ee  take  some,"  said  Betty,  emerging  again,  and  be 
ginning  to  pluck  a  handful  of  her  finest  {lowers  ;  "  'tis  all 
our  Harry's  doing ;  he's  mazing  partickler  about  seeds." 

"  He  seems  to  make  everything  thrive,  Betty.  There,  that's 
plenty,  thank  j^ou.  We  won't  take  many,  for  fear  they  should 
fade  before  chui'ch  is  over." 

"'  Oh,  dwont'ee  be  afeared,  there's  plenty  mors  ;  and  you 
be  as  wclcom'  as  the  day." 

0  2 


196  TOM    Bi:OWN    AT    OXFOKD. 

Betty  never  said  a  truer  word  ;  she  was  one  of  the  real 
open-handed  sort,  who  are  found  mostly  amongst  those  who 
have  the  least  to  give.  They  or  any  one  else  were  welcome 
to  the  best  she  had. 

So  the  young  ladies  took  the  flowers,  thanked  her  again, 
and  passed  on  towards  the  Sunday-school. 

The  rector's  daughter  might  have  been  a  year  or  so  older 
than  her  companion  :  she  looked  more.  Her  jiosition  in  the 
village  had  been  one  of  much  anxiety,  and  she  was  fast  getting 
an  old  head  on  young  shoulders.  The  other  young  lady  was 
a  slip  of  a  girl  just  coming  out ;  in  fact,  this  was  the  first  visit 
which  she  had  ever  paid  out  of  leading  strings.  She  had  lived 
in  a  happy  home,  where  she  had  always  been  trusted  and 
loved,  and  perhaps  a  thought  too  much  petted. 

There  are  some  natures  which  attract  petting ;  you  can't 
help  doing  your  best  to  spoil  them  in  this  way,  and  it  is  satis- 
factory, therefore,  to  know  (as  the  fact  is)  that  they  are  just 
the  ones  wliich  cannot  be  so  spoilt. 

Miss  IMary  was  one  of  these.  Trustful,  for  she  had  never 
been  tricked  ;  fearless,  for  she  had  never  been  cowed ;  pure 
and  bright  as  the  Englebourn  brook  at  fifty  yards  from  its 
parent  spring  in  the  chalk,  for  she  had  a  pure  and  bright 
nature,  and  had  come  in  contact  as  yet  with  nothing  which 
could  soil  or  cast  a  shadow.  What  wonder  that  her  life  gave 
forth  light  and  music  as  it  glided  on,  and  that  every  one  who 
knew  her  was  eager  to  have  her  with  them,  to  warm  them- 
selves in  the  light  and  rejoice  in  the  music ! 

Besides  all  her  other  attractions,  or  in  consequence  of  them 
for  anything  I  knew,  she  was  one  of  the  merriest  young 
women  in  the  world,  always  ready  to  bubble  over  and  break 
out  into  clear  laughter  on  the  slightest  provocation.  And 
jirovocation  had  not  been  wanting  during  the  last  two  days 
which  she  had  spent  with  her  cousin.  As  usual  she  had 
brought  sunshine  with  her,  and  the  old  Doctor  had  half- 
forgotten  his  numerous  complaints  and  grievances  for  the  tima 
So  the  cloud  which  generally  hung  over  the  house  had  been 
partially  lifted,  and  Mary,  knowing  and  suspecting  nothing 
of  the  dark  side  of  life  at  Englebourn  Rectory,  rallied  her 
cousin  on  her  gi-avity,  and  laughed  till  she  cried  at  the  queer 
ways  and  talk  of  the  people  about  the  place. 

As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing  of  Dame  "Winburn, 
Mary  began — 

"  Well,  Katie,  I  can't  say  that  you  have  mended  your  case 
at  all." 

"  Surely  you  can't  deny  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
character  in  Betty's  face  ]  "  said  Miss  Winter. 


ENGLEBOURN  VILLAGE.  197 

"  Oh,  plenty  of  character  :  all  your  people,  as  soon  as  they 
begin  to  stiffen  a  little  and  get  wrinkles,  seem  to  be  full  of 
character,  and  I  enjoy  it  much  more  than  beauty  :  but  we 
were  talking  about  beauty,  you  know." 

"  Betty's  son  is  the  handsomest  j^oung  man  in  the  parish," 
said  ]\Iiss  Winter  ;  "  and  I  must  say  I  don't  think  you  couiJ 
find  a  better-looking  one  anywhere." 

"  Then  I  can't  have  seen  him." 

"  Indeed  you  have  ;  1  pointed  him  out  to  you  at  the  post- 
office  yesterday.  Don't  you  remember  1  he  was  waiting  for  a 
letter." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  now  I  remember.  Well,  he  was  better  than 
most.  But  the  faces  of  your  young  people  in  general  are  not 
interesting — 1  don't  mean  the  children,  but  the  young  men 
and  women — and  they  are  awkward  and  clownish  in  their 
manners,  without  the  quaintness  of  the  elder  generation,  who 
are  the  funniest  old  dears  in  the  world." 

"  They  will  all  be  quaint  enough  as  they  get  older.  You 
must  remember  the  sort  of  life  they  lead.  They  get  their 
notions  very  slowly,  and  they  must  have  notions  in  their 
heads  before  they  can  show  them  on  their  faces." 

"  Well,  your  Betty's  son  looked  as  if  he  had  a  notion  of 
hanging  himself  yesterday." 

"  It's  no  laughing  matter,  Mary.  I  hear  he  is  desperately 
in  love." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  that  makes  a  difference,  of  course.  I  hope 
he  won't  carry  out  his  notion.  Who  is  it,  do  you  know  1  Do 
tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  Our  gardener's  daughter,  I  believe.  Of  course,  I  never 
meddle  with  these  matters ;  but  one  can't  help  hearing  the 
servants'  gossip.  I  thiidi.  it  likely  to  be  true,  for  he  was 
about  our  premises  at  all  sorts  of  times  until  lately,  and  I 
never  see  him  now  that  she  is  away." 

"  Is  she  pretty  1 "  said  Mary,  who  was  getting  interested. 

"  Yes,  she  is  our  belle.  In  fact,  they  are  the  two  beautiep 
of  the  parish." 

"  Fancy  that  cross-grained  old  Simon  having  a  pretty 
daughter.    Oh,  Katie,  look  here  !  who  is  this  figure  of  fun  ?  " 

The  figure  of  fun  was  a  middle-aged  man  of  small  stature, 
and  very  bandy-legged,  dressed  in  a  blue  coat  and  brass  but- 
tons, and  carrying  a  great  bass-viol  bigger  than  himself,  in  a 
rough  baize  cover.  He  came  out  of  a  footpath  into  the  road 
just  before  them,  and,  on  seeing  them,  touched  his  hat  to  ]\Iiss 
Winter,  and  then  fidgeted  along  with  his  load,  and  jerked  his 
head  in  a  deprecatory  manner  aAvay  from  them  as  he  walked 
on,  with  the  sort  of  look  and  action  which  a  favourite  terrier 


11)8  TOM   BROWN  AT   OXFORD. 

uses  when  his  master  holds  out  a  lighted  cigar  to  his  no:^-e. 
He  was  the  village  tailor  and  constable,  also  the  principal 
performer  in  the  church-music  which  obtained  in  Englebourn. 
In  the  latter  capacity  he  had  of  late  come  into  coUision  with 
Miss  Winter. 

For  this  was  another  of  the  questions  which  divided  tlie 
parish — The  great  church-music  question.  From  time  im- 
memorial, at  least  ever  since  the  gallery  at  the  west  end  had 
been  built,  the  village  psalmody  had  been  in  the  hands  of 
the  occupiers  of  that  Protestant  structure.  In  the  middle  cf 
the  front  row  sat  the  musicians,  three  in  number,  who  played 
respectively  a  bass-viol,  a  fiddle,  and  a  clarionet.  On  one 
side  of  them  Avere  two  or  three  young  women,  who  sang  treble 
— shrill,  ear-piercing  treble — with  a  strong  nasal  Berkshire 
drawl  in  it.  On  the  other  side  of  the  musicians  sat  the 
blacksmith,  the  wheelwright,  and  other  tradesmen  of  the  place. 
Tradesmen  means  in  that  part  of  the  country  what  we  mean 
by  artisan,  and  these  were  naturally  allied  with  the  labourers, 
and  consorted  with  them.  So  far  as  church-going  was  con- 
cerned, they  formed  a  sort  of  independent  opposition,  sitting 
in  the  gallery,  instead  of  in  the  nave,  where  the  farmers  and 
the  two  or  three  principal  shopkeepers — the  great  landed  and 
commercial  interests — regularly  sat  and  slept,  and  where  the 
tAvo  publicans  occiipied  pews,  but  seldom  made  even  the  pre- 
tence of  worshipping. 

The  rest  of  tlie  gallery  was  filled  by  the  able-bodied  male 
peasantry.  The  old  worn-out  men  generally  sat  below  in  the 
free  seats ;  the  women  also,  and  some  few  boys.  But  the 
hearts  of  these  latter  were  in  the  gallery — a  seat  on  the  back 
benches  of  which  was  a  sign  that  they  had  indued  the  toga 
virilis,  and  were  thenceforth  free  from  maternal  and  pastoral 
tutelage  in  the  matter  of  church-going.  The  gallery  thus 
constituted  had  gradually  usurped  the  psalmody  as  their  par- 
ticiilar  and  special  portion  of  the  service  :  they  left  the  clerk 
and  the  school  children,  aided  by  such  of  the  aristocracy 
below  as  cared  to  join,  to  do  the  responses  ;  but,  when  singing 
time  came,  they  reigned  supreme.  The  slate  on  which  the 
Psalms  were  announced  was  hung  out  from  before  the  centre 
of  the  gallery,  and  the  clerk,  leaving  his  place  under  the 
reading  desk,  marched  up  there  to  give  them  out.  He  took 
this  method  of  preserving  his  constitutional  connexion  with 
the  singing,  knowing  that  otherwise  he  could  not  have  main- 
tained the  rightful  position  of  his  office  in  this  matter.  So 
matters  had  stood  until  shortly  before  the  time  of  our  story. 

The  present  curate,  however,  backed  by  Miss  Winter,  had 
tried  a  reform.     He  was  a  quiet  man,  with  a  wife  and  several 


ENGLEBOURN  YIIA.AGE.  11)9 

cliiklren,  and  small  means.  He  had  served  in  tho  diocese 
ever  since  he  had  been  ordained,  in  a  hum-drum  sort  of  way, 
going  where  he  was  sent  for,  and  performing  his  routine 
duties  reasonably  well,  but  without  showmg  any  great  aptitude 
for  his  work.  He  had  little  interest,  and  had  almost  given 
up  expecting  promotion,  which  he  certainly  had  done  nothing 
particular  to  merit.  But  there  was  one  point  on  which  he 
was  always  ready  to  go  out  of  his  way,  and  take  a  little 
trouble.  He  was  a  good  musician,  and  had  formed  choirs 
at  all  his  former  curacies. 

Soon  after  his  arrival,  therefore,  he,  in  concert  with  Miss 
Winter,  had  begun  to  train  the  children  in  church-music.  A 
small  organ,  which  had  stood  in  a  passage  in  the  Eectory  for 
many  years,  had  been  repaired,  and  appeared  first  at  the 
schoolroom,  and  at  length  under  the  gallery  of  the  church  ; 
and  it  was  announced  one  week  to  the  party  in  possession, 
that,  on  the  next  Sunday,  the  constituted  authorities  woidd 
take  the  church-music  into  their  own  hands.  Then  arose  a 
strife,  the  end  of  which  had  nearly  been  to  send  the  gallery 
ofi",  in  a  body,  headed  by  the  offended  bass-viol,  to  the  small 
red-brick  little  Bethel  at  the  other  end  of  the  village.  Fortu- 
nately the  curate  had  too  much  good  sense  to  drive  matters  to 
extremities,  and  so  alienate  the  parish  constable,  ajid  a  large 
part  of  his  flock,  though  he  had  not  tact  or  energy  enough  to 
bring  them  round  to  his  own  views.  So  a  compromise  was  come 
to  ;  and  the  curate's  choir  were  allowed  to  chant  the  Psalms 
and  Canticles,  which  had  always  been  read  before,  while  the 
gallery  remained  triumphant  masters  of  the  regular  Psalms. 

My  readers  will  now  understand  why  INIiss  Winter's  salu" 
tation  to  the  musical  constable  was  not  so  cordial  as  it  was  to 
the  other  villagers  whom  they  had  come  across  previously. 

Indeed,  IMiss  Winter,  though  she  acknowledged  the  con- 
stable's salutation,  did  not  seem  inclined  to  encourage  him  to 
accompany  them,  and  talk  his  mind  out,  although  he  was 
going  the  same  way  with  them  ;  and,  instead  of  drawing  him 
out,  as  was  her  wont  in  such  cases,  went  on  talking  herself  to 
her  cousin. 

The  little  man  walked  out  in  the  road,  evidently  in  trouble 
of  mind.  He  did  not  like  to  drop  behind  or  go  ahead  without 
some  further  remark  from  Miss  Winter  and  yet  could  not 
screw  up  lus  courage  to  the  point  of  opening  the  conversation 
himself.  So  he  ambled  on  alongside  the  footpath  on  which 
they  were  walliing,  showing  his  discomfort  by  a  twist  of  his 
neck  every  iV.w  seconds,  and  perpetual  shiftings  of  his  bass- 
viol,  and  hunching  up  of  one  shovdder. 

The  conversation  of  the  young  ladies  under  these  circum- 


no  J  TOM   BKOWF   AT   OXFOED. 

stances  was  of  course  forced  ;  and  Miss  Mary,  though  infinitely 
doliyhted  at  the  meeting,  soon  began  to  pity  tlieir  involuntary 
companion.  She  was  full  of  the  sensitive  instinct  which  the 
best  sort  of  women  have  to  such  a  marvellous  extent,  and 
which  tells  them  at  once  and  infiillibly  if  any  one  in  their 
company  has  even  a  creased  rose-leaf  next  their  moral  skin. 

Before  they  had  walked  a  hundred  yards  she  was  inter- 
ceding for  the  rebellious  constable. 

"  Katie,"  she  said  softly,  in  French,  "  do  speak  to  him.  The 
poor  man  is  frightfully  uncomfortable." 

"  It  serves  him  right,"  answered  ]\[iss  Winter,  in  the  same 
language  :  "  you  don't  know  how  impertinent  he  was  the  other 
day  to  Mt.  Walker.  And  he  won't  give  way  on  the  least 
point,  and  leads  the  rest  of  the  old  singers,  and  makes  them 
as  stubborn  as  himself." 

"  JJut  do  look  how  he  is  winkmg  and  jerking  his  head  at 
you.  You  really  mustn't  be  so  cruel  to  him,  Katie.  1  shall 
have  to  begin  talking  to  him  if  you  don'L" 

Thus  urged.  Miss  Winter  opened  the  conversation  by  asking 
after  his  wife,  and  when  .she  had  ascertained  "  that  his  missus 
wur  pretty  middlin,"  made  some  other  common-place  remaik, 
and  relapsed  into  silence.  Ey  the  help  of  Mary,  however,  a 
sort  of  disjointed  dialogue  was  kept  up  till  they  came  to  the 
gate  which  led  up  to  the  school,  into  which  the  chddren 
were  trooping  by  twos  and  threes.  Here  the  ladies  turned 
in,  and  were  going  up  the  walk,  towards  the  school  door, 
when  the  constable  summoned  up  courage  to  speak  on  the 
matter  which  was  troubling  him,  and,  resting  the  bass-viol 
carefully  on  his  right  foot,  called  out  after  them, 

"  Oh,  please  marm  !     Miss  Winter  !" 

"Well,"  she  said  quietly,  turning  round,  "what  do  you 
wish  to  say  1" 

"  Why,  please  marm,  I  hopes  as  you  don't  think  I  be  any 
ways  uuked  'bout  this  here  quire-singin'  as  they  calls  it — I'm 
sartin  you  knoAvs  as  there  ain't  amost  nothing  1  wouldn't 
do  to  please  ee." 

"  Well,  you  know  how  to  do  it  very  easily,"  she  said  when 
he  paused.  "  1  don't  ask  you  even  to  give  up  your  music  and 
try  to  work  with  us,  though  I  think  you  might  have  done 
that.  I  only  ask  you  to  use  some  psalms  and  tunes  which 
are  fit  to  be  used  in  a  chiu'ch." 

"  To  be  sure  us  ooL  'Taint  we  as  wants  no  new-fangled 
tunes ;  them  as  we  sings  be  aal  owld  ones  as  ha'  been  used  in 
our  church  ever  since  I  can  mind.  But  you  only  choose 
thaay  as  you  Ukes  out  o'  the  book,  and  we  be  ready  to  kep  lo 
thaay." 


ENGLEEOITRN  VILLAGE.  201 

"  I  tliink  Mr.  Walker  ma'de  a  selection  for  you  some  weeka 
ago,"  said  Miss  Winter ;  "did  not  he  ]" 

"'Ees,  but  'tis  narra  mossel  o'  use  for  we  to  try  his  'goriums 
and  sich  like.  I  hopes  you  wunt  be  offended  wi'  me,  miss, 
for  I  be  telling  nought  but  truth."  lie  spoke  louder  as  they 
got  nearer  to  the  school  door,  and,  as  they  were  opening  it, 
shouted  his  last  shot  after  them,  "  'Tis  na  good  to  try  thaay 
tunes  o'  his'n,  miss.  When  us  praises  God,  us  likes  to  praise 
un  joyful." 

*'  There,  you  hear  that,  Mary,"  said  !Miss  Winter.  "  You'll 
soon  begin  to  see  why  I  look  gi-ave.  There  never  was  such  a 
hard  parish  to  manage.  Xobody  will  do  what  they  ought. 
1  never  can  get  them  to  do  anything.  Perhaps  we  may 
manage  to  teach  the  children  better,  that's  my  only  comfort." 

"  JJut,  Katie  dear,  what  do  the  poor  things  sing  ?  Psalms, 
I  hope." 

"  Oh  yes,  but  they  choose  all  the  odd  ones  on  purpose,  I 
believe.     Which  class  will  you  take  ]" 

And  so  the  young  ladies  settled  to  their  teaching,  and  the 
children  in  her  class  all  fell  in  love  with  iMary  before  church- 
time. 

The  bass-viol  proceeded  to  the  church  and  did  the  usual 
rehearsals,  and  gossipped  with  the  sexton,  to  whom  he  con- 
tided  the  fact  that  the  young  missus  was  "  tenible  vexe(L" 
The  bells  soon  began  to  ring,  and  Widow  Winburn's  heart 
was  glad  as  she  listened  to  the  full  peal,  and  thought  to  herself 
that  it  was  her  Harry  who  was  making  so  much  noise  in  the 
world,  and  speaking  to  aU  the  neighbourhood.  Then  the 
peal  ceased  as  church-time  drew  near,  and  the  single  bell 
began,  and  the  congregation  came  flocking  in  from  all  sides. 
The  farmers,  letting  their  wives  and  children  enter,  gathered 
round  the  chief  porch  and  compared  notes  in  a  ponderous 
manner  on  crops  and  markets.  The  labourers  collected  near 
the  door  by  which  tlie  gallery  was  reached.  All  the  men 
of  the  parish  seemed  to  like  standing  about  before  church, 
until  they  had  seen  the  clergyman  safely  inside.  He  came 
up  with  the  school  children  and  the  young  ladies,  and  in  due 
course  the  bell  stopped  and  the  service  began.  There  was  a 
very  good  congregation  still  at  Englebourn  ;  the  adult  genera- 
tion had  been  bred  up  in  times  when  every  decent  person  in 
tlie  parish  went  to  church,  and  the  custom  was  still  strong, 
not^^'ithstanding  the  rector's  bad  example.  He  scarcely  ever 
came  to  church  himself  in  the  mornings,  though  his  wheel- 
chair might  be  seen  going  up  and  down  on  the  gravel  before 
his  house  or  on  the  lawn  on  warm  days,  and  this  was  one  of 
his  daughter's  greatest  troubles. 


2{)-2  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

The  little  clioir  of  children  sang  admirabl}'^,  led  by  the 
sclioolniistress,  and  Miss  Winter  and  the  curate  exchanged 
ajiproving  glances.  They  performed  the  liveliest  chant  in 
their  collection,  that  the  opposition  might  have  no  cause  to 
complain  of  their  want  of  joyfulness.  And  in  turn  Miss 
"\A'inter  was  in  hopes  that,  out  of  deference  to  her,  the  usual 
rule  of  selection  in  the  gallery  might  have  been  modified.  It 
was  with  no  small  annoyance,  therefore,  that,  after  the  Litany 
was  over,  and  the  tuning  finished,  she  heard  the  clerk  give 
out  that  they  would  praise  God  by  singing  part  of  the  ninety- 
first  Psalm.  Mary,  who  was  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation  as 
to  what  was  coming,  saw  the  curate  give  a  slight  shi-ug  with 
his  shoulders  and  lift  of  his  eyebrows  as  he  left  the  reading- 
desk,  and  in  another  minute  it  became  a  painfiU  effort  for  her 
to  keep  from  laughing  as  she  slyly  watched  her  cousin's  face  ; 
wliile  the  gallery  sang  with  vigour  worthy  of  any  cause  or 
occasion — 

"  On  the  old  lion  TTo  shall  go, 

The  adder  fell  and  long  ; 
On  the  young  lion  tread  also, 

"With  dragons  stout  and  strong." 

The  trebles  took  up  the  last  line,  and- repeated — - 

' '  With  dragons  stout  and  strong  ; " 
and  then  the  whole  strength  of  the  gallery  chorused  again — • 

"  With  dr-d-gmis  stout  and  strong," 
and  the  bass-viol  seemed  to  her  to  prolong  the  notes  and  to 
gloat  over  them  as  lie  droned  them  out,  looking  tiiumphuntly 
at  the  distant  curate.  Mary  was  thankful  to  kneel  doMTi  to 
compose  her  face.  The  first  trial  was  the  severe  one,  and 
she  got  through  the  second  psalm  much  better ;  and  by  the 
time  Mr.  Wallvcr  had  plunged  fairly  into  his  sermon  she  was 
a  model  of  propriety  and  sedateness  again.  But  it  was  to  be 
a  Sund.ay  of  adventures.  The  sermon  had  scarcely  begun 
when  there  was  a  stir  down  by  the  door  at  the  west  end,  and 
people  began  to  look  round  and  whisper.  Presently  a  man 
came  softly  up  and  said  something  to  the  clerk  ;  the  clerk 
jumped  up  and  whispered  to  the  curate,  who  paused  for  a 
moment  with  a  puzzled  look,  and,  instead  of  finishing  his 
sentence,  said  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Farmer  Groves'  house  is  oti 
fire  ! " 

The  curate  probably  anticipated  the  effect  of  his  words  ; 
in  a  minute  he  was  the  only  person  left  in  the  church  except 
the  clerk  and  one  or  two  very  infirm  old  folk.  He  shut  up 
and  pocketed  his  sermon,  and  followed  his  fiock. 

It  proved  luckily  to  be  only  Farmer  Groves'  chimney  and 
not  his  house  which  was  on  fire.     The  farmhouse  was  only 


ENGLEBOURN   VILLAGE.  203 

two  fields  from  tlie  village,  and  the  congregation  rushed  across 
there,  Harry  Winburn  and  two  or  three  of  the  most  active 
young  men  and  boys  leading.  As  they  entered  the  yard  the 
flames  were  rushing  out  of  the  chimney,  and  any  moment  the 
thatch  might  take  fire.  Here  was  the  real  danger.  A  ladder 
had  just  been  reared  against  the  chimney,  and,  while  a 
frightened  fiirm-girl  and  a  carter-boy  held  it  at  the  bottom, 
a  man  was  going  up  it  carrying  a  bucket  of  water.  It  shook 
with  his  weight,  and  the  top  was  slipping  gradually  along  the 
face  of  the  chimney,  and  in  another  moment  would  rest  against 
nothing.  Harry  and  his  companions  saw  the  danger  at  a 
glance,  and  shouted  to  the  man  to  stand  still  till  they  could 
got  to  the  ladder.  They  rushed  towards  him  with  the  rush 
which  men  can  only  make  under  stiong  excitement ;  but  as 
the  foremost  of  them  caught  a  spoke  witli  one  hand,  and, 
before  he  could  steady  it,  the  top  slipped  clear  of  the  chimney, 
and  ladder,  man,  and  bucket  came  heavily  to  the  ground. 

Then  came  a  scene  of  bewildermg  confusion,  as  women  and 
children  trooped  into  the  yard — "  Who  was  it  ? "  "  Was  he 
dead  1 "  "  The  fire  was  catching  the  thatch."  "  The  stables 
were  on  fire."  "Who  done  it?" — all  sorts  of  cries  and  all 
sorts  of  acts  except  tlie  right  ones.  Fortunately,  two  or  three 
of  the  men,  with  heads  on  their  shoulders,  soon  organized  a 
line  for  handing  buckets  ;  the  flue  was  stopped  below,  and 
Harry  Winburn,  standing  nearly  at  the  top  of  the  ladder, 
which  was  now  safely  planted,  was  deluging  the  thatch  round 
the  chimney  from  the  buckets  lianded  up  to  him.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  was  able  to  pour  water  down  the  chimney  itself, 
and  soon  afterwards  the  whole  affair  was  at  an  end.  The 
farmer's  dinner  Avas  spoilt,  but  otherwise  no  damage  had  been 
done,  except  to  the  clothes  of  the  foremost  men ;  and  the 
only  accident  was  that  first  fall  from  the  ladder. 

The  man  had  been  carried  out  of  the  yard  while  the  fire 
was  stiU  burning  ;  so  that  it  was  hardly  known  who  it  was. 
Now,  in  answer  to  their  inquiries,  it  proved  to  be  old  Simon, 
the  rector's  gardener  and  head  man,  who  had  seen  the  fire, 
and  sent  the  news  to  the  church,  while  he  himself  went  to  the 
spot,  with  such  result  as  we  have  seen. 

The  surgeon  had  not  yet  seen  him.  Some  declared  he  was 
dead  ;  others,  that  he  was  sitting  up  at  home,  and  <(uite  well. 
Little  by  little  the  crowd  dispersed  to  Sunday's  dinners  ;  and, 
when  they  met  again  before  the  afternoon's  service,  it  was 
ascertained  that  Simon  was  certainly  not  dead,  but  aU  else 
was  still  nothing  more  than  rumour.  Public  opinion  was 
much  divided,  some  holdmg  that  it  would  go  hard  Avith  a 
man  of  his  age  and  heft ;  but  the  common  belief  seemed  to 


204  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFOKD, 

bo  that  lie  was  of  that  sort  "  as'd  take  a  deal  o'  killin'/' 
and  that  he  woiild  be  none  the  worse  for  such  a  fall  a? 
that. 

The  two  young  ladies  had  been  much  shocked  at  the  acci- 
dent, and  had  accompanied  the  hurdle  on  which  old  Simon 
\/as  carried  to  his  cottage  door  ;  after  afternoon  service  they 
went  round  by  the  cottage  to  inquire.  The  two  girls  knocked 
at  the  door,  which  was  opened  by  Iris  wife,  who  dropj)ed  a 
curtsey  and  smoothed  down  her  Sunday  apron  when  she  found 
who  were  her  visitors. 

She  seemed  at  fii'st  a  little  unwilling  to  let  them  in  ;  but 
Miss  Winter  pressed  so  kindly  to  see  her  husband,  and  Mary 
made  such  sympathizing  eyes  at  her,  that  the  old  woman 
gave  in  and  conducted  them  through  the  front  room  into 
that  beyond,  where  the  patient  lay. 

"  I  hope  as  you'll  excuse  it,  miss,  for  I  knows  the  place  do 
smell  terrible  bad  of  baccer ;  only  my  old  man  he  said  as 
how—" 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  we  don't  care  at  all  about  the  smell. 
Poor  Sijiion  !  I'm  sure  if  it  does  him  any  good,  or  soothed 
the  pain,  I  shall  be  glad  to  buy  him  some  tobacco  myself." 

The  old  man  was  lying  on  the  bed  with  his  coat  and  boots 
off,  and  a  wor'^ted  nightcap  of  his  wife's  knitting  pulled  on 
to  his  head.  She  nad  tried  hard  to  get  him  .to  go  to  bed  at 
once,  and  take  some  physic,  and  his  present  costume  and 
nosition  was  the  compromise.  His  back  was  turned  to  them 
as  they  entered,  and  he  was  evidently  in  pain,  for  he  drew  his 
breath  heavily  and  with  difficulty,  and  gave  a  sort  of  groan  at 
every  res})iration.  He  did  not  sicem  to  notice  their  entrance  ; 
so  his  wife  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  said,  "  Simon, 
here's  the  young  ladies  come  to  see  how  you  be." 

Simon  turned  himself  round,  and  winced  and  groaned  as 
he  pulled  olf  his  nightcap  in  token  of  respect. 

"  We  didn't  like  to  go  home  without  coming  to  see  how 
you  were,  Simon.     Has  the  doctor  been  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank'ee,  miss.  He've  a  been  and  feel'd  un  all 
over,  and  listened  at  the  clujst  on  un,"  said  his  wife. 

"  And  what  did  he  say  1 " 

"  He  zem'd  to  zay  as  there  wur  no  bwones  bruk — ugh, 
ugh,"  put  in  Simon,  who  spoke  his  native  tongue  with  a 
buzz,  imported  from  farther  west,  "  but  a  couldn't  zay  wether 
or  no  there  warn't  som  infarnal  injury — " 

"  Etarnal,  Simon,  etarnal  !  "  interrupted  his  wife  ;  "  how 
canst  use  such  words  afore  the  young  ladies  1 " 

"  1  tell'ee  wife,  as  'twur  inlarnal — ugh,  ugh,"  rett  tted  the 
gardener. 


ENGLEBOUllN   VILLAGE.  205 

"  Internal  injury  1 "  suggested  !Miss  Winter.  "  I'm  very 
sorry  to  hear  it." 

"  Zummut  inside  o'  me  like,  as  wur  got  out  o'  place," 
explained  Simon  ;  "  and  I  thenks  a  must  be  near  about  the 
mark,  for  I  feels  mortal  bad  here  when  I  trior,  to  move  ;  "  and 
he  put  his  hand  on  his  side.  "  Hows'm'ever,  as  there's  no 
bwones  bruk,  I  hopes  to  be  about  to-morrow  mornin',  please 
the  Lord — ugh,  ugh." 

"  You  mustn't  think  of  it,  Simon,"  said  IMiss  Winter. 
"  You  must  be  quite  quiet  for  a  week,  at  least,  till  you  get  rid 
of  this  pain." 

"  So  I  tells  un.  Miss  Winter,"  put  in  the  wife.  "  You 
hear  what  the  young  missus  says,  Simon  1 " 

"  And  wut's  to  happen  to  Tiny  1 "  said  the  contumacious 
Simon,  scornfully.  "  Her'U  cast  her  calf,  and  me  not  b3^ 
Her's  calving  may  be  this  minut.  Tiny's  time  wur  up,  miss, 
two  days  back,  and  her's  never  no  gurt  while  arter  her  time." 

"  She  will  do  very  well,  I  dare  say,"  said  JSIiss  Winter. 
"  One  of  the  men  can  look  after  her." 

The  notion  of  any  one  else  attending  Tiny  in  her  interest- 
ing situation  seemed  to  excite  Simon  beyond  bearing,  for  he 
raised  himself  on  one  elbow,  and  was  about  to  make  a 
demonstration  with  liis  other  hand,  when  the  pain  seized  him 
again,  and  he  sank  back  groaning. 

"There,  you  see,  Simon,  you  can't  move  without  pain. 
You  must  be  quiet  till  you  have  seen  tho  doctor  again." 

"  There's  the  red  spider  out  along  the  south  wall — ugh, 
ugh,"  persisted  Simon,  without  seeming  to  hear  her  ;  "  and 
your  new  g'raniums  a'most  covered  wi'  blight.  I  wur  a  tacklin' 
one  on  'em  just  afore  you  cum  in." 

Following  the  direction  indicated  by  his  nod,  the  girls 
became  aware  of  a  plant  by  his  bed-side,  which  he  had  been 
fumigating,  for  his  pipe  was  leaning  against  the  flower-pot 
in  which  it  stood. 

"  He  wouldn't  lie  still  nohow,  miss,"  explained  his  wife, 
"  till  I  went  and  fetched  un  in  a  pipe  and  one  o'  thaay  plants 
from  the  greenhouse." 

"  It  was  very  thoughtful  of  you,  Simon,"  said  Miss  Winter; 
"  you  know  how  much  I  prize  these  new  plants  :  but  we 
will  manage  them ;  and  you  mustn't  think  of  these  things 
now.  You  have  had  a  wonderful  escape  to-day  for  a  man 
of  your  age.  I  hope  we  shall  find  that  there  is  nothing 
much  the  matter  with  you  after  a  few  days,  but  you  might 
have  been  killed,  you  know.  You  ought  to  be  very  thankfiJ 
to  God  that  you  were  not  killed  in  that  fall." 

"  So  I  be,  miss,  werry  thankful  to  un-— ugh,  ugh  ; — and  if 


20()  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

it  plaase  tlie  Lord  to  spare  my  life  till  to-morrow  momui'  — 
ugh,  ugh, — we'll  smoke  them  cussed  insects." 

This  last  retort  of  the  iucorrigible  Simon  on  her  cousin's 
attempt,  as  the  rector's  daughter,  to  improve  the  occasion,  was 
too  much  foi'  Miss  Mary,  and  she  slipped  out  of  the  room  lest 
slie  should  bring  disgrace  on  herself  by  an  explosion  of  laugli- 
tcr.  She  was  joined  by  her  cousin  in  another  minute,  and 
the  two  walked  together  towards  the  Rectory. 

"  I  hoj)e  you  were  not  faiut,  dear,  with  that  close  room, 
fmelling  of  smoke  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  no  ;  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  only  afraid  of 
laugliing  at  your  quaint  old  patient.  What  a  rugged  old  dear 
it  is.     1  hope  he  isn't  much  hurt." 

"  I  hope  not,  indeed  ;  for  he  is  the  most  honest,  faithful 
old  servant  in  the  world,  but  so  obstinate.  He  never  will  go 
to  church  on  Sunday  mornings  ;  and,  wlien  I  speak  to  him 
about  it,  he  says  ]iapa  doesn't  go.  Wliich  is  very  wrong  and 
imx^ertinent  of  him." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A    PROMISE   OF    FAIREU    WEATHEH. 

Ahi,  dwellers  in  and  about  London  are,  alas,  too  well  ao- 
cjuain.ted  with  that  never-to-be-enough-hated  change  which 
we  have  to  undergo  once,  at  least,  in  every  sjjring.  As  cacli 
succeeding  winter  wears  away,  the  same  thing  happens  to  us. 

For  some  time  we  do  not  trust  tlie  fair  lengthening  days, 
and  cannot  believe  that  the  dirty  pair  of  s])arrowf  t'ho  live 
oiijiosite  our  window  are  really  making  love  and  going  to 
budd,  notwithstanding  a^l  iJieir  twittering.  But  morning 
after  morning  rises  fresh  and  gentle  ;  there  is  no  longer  any 
vice  in  the  air;  we  drop  our  over-coats;  we  rejoice  in  the 
green  shoots  which  the  privet  liedge  is  making  in  the  square 
girden,  and  hail  the  returning  tender-pointed  leaves  of  the 
jilane-trees  as  friends  ;  we  go  out  of  our  way  to  walk  through 
Covent  Garden  Market  to  see  the  ever-brightening  show  of 
iluwers  from  the  happy  country. 

This  state  of  things  goes  on  sometimes  for  a  few  days  only, 
sometimes  for  weeks,  till  we  make  sure  that  we  are  safe  for 
this  spring  at  any  rate.  Don't  we  wish  we  may  get  it !  Sooner 
or  later,  but  sure — sure  as  Christmas  bdls,  or  the  income-tax, 
or  anything,  if  there  be  anything,  surer  than  these — comes 
tlie  morning  when  we  are  suddcidy  conscious  as  soon  as 
wo  rise  that  there  is  sometluug  the  matter.    We  do  not  feel 


A    T'ROMISE   OF   FAIRER   WEATHER.  207 

comfortable  in  our  clothes  ;  nothing  tastes  quite  as  it  should 
at  breakfast ;  though  the  day  looks  bright  enough,  there  is  a 
fierce  dusty  taint  about  it  as  we  look  out  through  windows, 
which  no  instinct  now  prompts  us  to  throw  open,  as  it  has 
done  every  day  for  the  last  month. 

But  it  is  only  when  we  open  our  doors  and  issue  into  the 
street,  that  the  hateful  reality  comes  right  home  to  us.  All 
moisture,  and  softness,  and  pleasantness  has  gone  clean  out  of 
the  air  since  last  night ;  we  seem  to  inhale  yards  of  horsehair 
iiistead  of  satin  ;  our  skins  dry  up ;  our  eyes,  and  hair,  and 
whiskers,  and  clothes  are  soon  filled  with  loathsome  dust,  and 
our  nostrils  with  the  reek  of  the  great  city.  We  glance  at  the 
weather-cock  on  the  nearest  steeple,  and  see  that  it  points 
N.E.  And  so  long  as  the  change  lasts,  we  cai'ry  about  with 
us  a  feeling  of  anger  and  impatience  as  though  we  personally 
were  being  ill-treated.  We  could  have  borne  with  it  well 
enough  in  November  ;  it  would  have  been  natural,  and  all  in 
the  day's  work  in  March  ;  but  now,  when  Rotten-row  is 
beginning  to  be  crowded,  when  long  lines  of  pleasure-vans  are 
leavmg  town  on  Monday  mornings  for  Hampton  Court  or  the 
poor  remains  of  dear  Epping  Forest,  when  the  exhibitions  are 
open  or  about  to  open,  when  the  religious  public  is  up,  or  on 
its  way  up,  for  ]\Iay  meetings,  when  the  Thames  is  already 
sending  up  faint  warnings  of  what  we  may  expect  as  soon  as 
his  dirty  old  life's  blood  shall  have  been  thoroughly  warmed 
up,  and  the  Ship,  and  Ti'afalgar,  and  Star  and  Garter  are  in 
fidl  swing  at  the  antagonist  ]")oles  of  the  cockney  system,  we 
do  feel  that  this  blight  which  has  come  over  us  and  everything 
is  an  insult,  and  that  while  it  lasts,  as  there  is  nobodj'  who 
can  be  made  particularly  responsible  for  it,  we  are  justified  in 
going  about  in  general  disgust,  and  ready  to  quarrel  with  any- 
body we  may  meet  on  the  smallest  pretext. 

This  sort  of  east-windy  state  is  perhaps  the  best  physical 
analogy  for  that  mental  one  in  which  our  hero  now  found 
himself.  The  real  crisis  was  over ;  he  had  managed  to  pass 
tlirough  the  eye  of  the  storm,  and  drift  for  the  present  at 
least  into  the  skirts  of  it,  where  he  lay  rolling  under  bare 
poles,  comparatively  safe,  but  ^^'ithout  any  power  as  yet  to  get 
the  ship  well  in  hand,  and  make  her  obey  her  helm.  The 
storm  might  break  over  him  again  at  any  minute,  and  would 
find  him  almost  as  helpless  as  ever. 

For  he  could  not  follow  Drysdale's  advice  at  once,  and 
break  off  his  visits  to  "  The  Choughs  "  altogether.  He  went 
back  again  after  a  day  or  two,  but  only  for  short  visits  ;  he 
never  stayed  behind  now  after  the  other  men  left  the  bar,  and 
avoided  interviews  with  Patty  alone  as  diligently  as  he  had 


208  TOM   BROWN  AT   OXFORD. 

sought  them  before.  She  was  puzzled  at  his  change  of  man- 
uer,  and  not  being  able  to  account  for  it,  was  piqued,  and 
ready  to  revenge  herself  and  pay  him  out  in  the  hundred  little 
ways  which  the  least  practised  of  her  sex  know  how  to  employ 
for  the  discipline  of  any  of  the  inferior  or  trousered  half  of  the 
creation.  If  she  had  been  really  in  love  with  him,  it  would 
have  been  a  different  matter  ;  but  she  was  not.  In  the  last  six 
weeks  she  had  certainly  often  had  visions  of  the  pleasures  of 
being  a  lady  and  keeping  servants,  and  riding  in  a  carriage  like 
the  squires'  and  rectors'  wives  and  daughters  about  her  home. 
She  had  a  Uking,  even  a  sentiment  for  him,  which  might  very 
well  have  grown  into  something  dangerous  before  long  ;  but 
as  yet  it  was  not  more  than  skin  deep.  Of  late,  indeed,  she 
had  been  much  more  frightened  than  attracted  by  the  conduct 
of  her  admirer,  and  really  felt  it  a  rehef,  notwithstanding  her 
pique,  when  he  retired  into  the  elder  brother  sort  of  state. 
But  she  would  have  been  more  than  woman  if  she  had  not 
resented  the  change  ;  and  so  very  soon  the  pangs  of  jealousy 
were  added  to  his  other  troubles.  Other  men  were  beginning 
to  frequent  "  The  Choughs "  regularly.  Drysdale,  besides 
dividing  with  Tom  the  prestige  of  being  an  original  discoverer, 
was  by  far  the  largest  customer.  St.  Cloud  came,  and  brought 
Chanter  with  him,  to  whom  Patty  was  actually  civil,  not  because 
she  liked  him  at  all,  but  because  she  saw  that  it  made  Tom 
furious.  Though  he  could  not  fix  on  any  one  man  in  particu- 
lar, he  felt  that  mankind  in  general  were  gaining  on  him.  In 
Ids  better  moments,  indeed,  he  often  wished  that  she  would 
take  the  matter  into  her  own  hands  and  throw  him  over  for 
good  and  all ;  but  keep  away  from  the  place  altogether  he 
could  not,  and  often,  when  he  fancied  himself  on  the  point 
of  doing  it,  a  pretty  toss  of  her  head  or  kind  look  of  her 
eyes  would  scatter  all  his  good  resolutions  to  the  four 
winds. 

And  so  the  days  dragged  on,  and  ho  dragged  on  through 
them  ;  hot  fits  of  conceit  alternating  in  him  with  cold  fitr  of 
despondency  and  ma wkishness  and  discontent  with  everything 
and  everybody,  which  were  all  the  more  intolerable  from  their 
entire  strangeness.  Instead  of  seeing  the  bright  side  of  all 
things,  he  seemed  to  be  looking  at  creation  through  yellow 
spectacles,  and  saw  faults  and  blemishes  in  all  his  acquaintance 
which  had  been  till  now  invisible. 

But  the  more  he  was  inclined  to  depreciate  all  other  men, 
the  more  he  felt  that  there  was  one  to  whom  he  had  been 
grossly  unjust.  And,  as  he  recalled  all  that  had  passed,  he 
began  to  do  justice  to  the  man  who  had  not  flinched  from 
warning  him  and  braving  him,  who  he  felt  had  been  wat<;hii/p 


A    PKOMISE    OF   FAIREE    WEATHER.  209 

over  liirn,  and  trying  to  guide  him  straight,  when  he  had  lost 
all  power  or  will  to  keep  straight  himself. 

From  this  time  the  dread  increased  on  him  lest  any  of  tha 
other  men  should  tind  out  his  quarrel  with  Hardy.  Thtur 
utter  ignorance  of  it  encouraged  him  in  the  hope  that  it  might 
all  pass  off  like  a  bad  dream.  Wliile  it  remained  a  matter 
between  them  alone,  he  felt  that  all  might  come  straight, 
though  he  could  not  think  how.  He  began  to  loiter  by  the 
entrance  of  the  passage  which  led  to  Hardy's  rooms ;  some- 
times he  would  find  something  to  say  to  his  scout  or  bed- 
maker  which  took  him  into  the  back  regions  outside  Hardy's 
window,  glancing  at  it  sideways  as  he  stood  giving  his  orders. 
There  it  was,  wide  open,  generally — he  hardly  knew  whether 
he  hoped  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  owner,  but  he  did  hope 
that  Hardy  might  hear  his  voice.  He  watched  him  in 
chapel  and  hall  furtively,  but  constantly,  and  was  always 
fancying  what  he  was  doing  and  thinking  about.  Was  it  as 
painful  an  effort  to  Hardy,  he  wondered,  as  to  him  to  go  on 
speaking,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  when  they  met  at  the 
boats,  as  they  did  now  again  almost  daily  (for  Diogenes 
was  bent  on  training  some  of  the  torpids  for  next  year),  and 
yet  never  to  look  one  another  in  the  face  ;  to  live  together  as 
usual  during  part  of  every  day,  and  yet  to  feel  all  the  time 
that  a  great  wall  had  risen  between  them,  more  hopelessly 
dividing  them  for  the  time  than  thousands  of  miles  of  ocean 
or  continent? 

Amongst  other  distractions  which  Tom  tried  at  this  crisis 
of  liis  life,  was  reading.  For  three  or  four  days  running,  he 
really  worked  hard — very  hard,  if  we  were  to  reckon  by  the 
number  of  hours  he  spent  in  his  own  rooms  over  his  books 
with  his  oak  sported — hard,  even  though  we  should  only  reckon 
by  results.  For,  though  scarcely  an  hour  passed  that  he  was 
not  balancing  on  the  hiud  legs  of  his  chair  with  a  vacant  look 
in  his  eyes,  and  thinking  of  anything  but  Greek  roots  or  Latin 
constructions,  yet  on  the  whole  he  managed  to  get  through 
a  good  deal,  and  one  evening,  for  the  first  time  since  his 
quarrel  with  Hardy,  felt  a  sensation  of  real  comfort — it  hardly 
amounted  to  pleasure — as  he  closed  his  Sophocles  some  hour 
or  so  after  hall,  having  just  finished  the  last  of  the  Greek 
plays  which  he  meant  to  take  in  for  his  first  examination. 
He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  sat  for  a  few  minutes,  letting 
liis  thoughts  follow  their  own  bent.  They  soon  took  to  going 
wrong,  and  he  jumped  up  in  fear  lest  he  should  be  drifting 
back  into  the  black  stormy  sea,  in  the  trough  of  which  ho 
had  been  labouring  so  lately,  and  which  he  felt  he  was  by 
no  means  clear  of  yet.     At  first  he  caught  up  his  cap  and 

P 


210  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

gown  as  though  he  were  going  out.  There  was  a  wine  ])aity 
at  one  of  his  acquaintance's  rooms;  or  he  couki  go  and  smoke  a 
cigar  in  the  pool  room,  or  at  any  one  of  a  dozen  other  places. 
On  second  thoughts,  however,  he  threw  his  academicals  back 
on  to  the  sofa,  and  went  to  his  book-case.  The  reading  had 
paid  so  well  tliat  evening  that  he  resolved  to  go  on  with  it. 
He  had  no  particular  object  in  selecting  one  book  more  than 
another,  and  so  took  down  carelessly  the  first  that  came  to  hand. 

It  happened  to  be  a  volume  of  Plato,  and  opened  of  its 
own  accord  in  the  "Apology."  He  glanced  at  a  few  lines. 
What  a  flood  of  memories  tliey  called  up  !  This  was  almost  tlie 
last  book  he  had  read  at  school  ;  and  teacher,  and  friends,  and 
lofty  oak-shelved  library  stood  out  before  him  at  once.  Then 
the  blunders  that  he  himself  and  others  had  made  rushed 
through  his  mind,  and  he  almost  burst  into  a  laugh  as  he 
wheeled  his  chair  round  to  the  window,  and  began  reading 
where  he  had  opened,  encouraging  every  thouglit  of  the  old 
times  when  he  first  read  that  marvellous  defence,  and  throwing 
himself  back  into  them  with  all  his  might.  And  still,  as  he 
read,  forgotten  Avords  of  wise  comment,  and  strange  thoughts 
of  wonder  and  longing,  came  back  to  him.  The  great  truth 
which  he  had  been  led  to  the  brink  of  in  those  early  days  rose 
in  all  its  awe  and  all  its  attractiveness  before  him.  He  leant 
back  in  his  chair,  and  gave  himself  up  to  his  thougjht ;  and 
how  strangely  that  thought  bore  on  the  struggle  which  had 
been  raging  in  him  of  late ;  how  an  answer  seemed  to  be 
trembling  to  come  out  of  it  to  all  the  cries,  now  defiant,  now 
plaintive,  which  had  gone  up  out  of  his  heart  in  this  time  of 
trouble  !  For  his  thouglit  was  of  that  spirit,  distinct  from 
himself,  and  yet  communing  with  his  himost  soul,  always 
dwelling  in  him,  knowing  him  better  than  he  knew  himself, 
never  misleading  him,  always  leading  him  to  light  and  truth, 
of  Avhich  the  old  j)hilosopher  spoke.  "  The  old  heathen, 
Socrates,  did  actually  believe  that — there  can  be  no  question 
about  it;"  he  thought,  "Has  not  the  testimony  of  the  best 
men  through  these  two  thousand  years  borne  witness  that  he 
was  right — that  he  did  not  believe  a  lie  1  That  was  what  we 
were  told.  Surely  I  don't  mistake  !  Were  we  not  told,  too, 
or  did  I  dream  it,  that  what  was  true  for  him  is  true  for  every 
man — for  me  1  That  there  is  a  spirit  dwelling  in  me,  striving 
with  me,  ready  to  lead  me  into  all  truth  if  I  will  submit  to 
his  guidance  1 

"  Ay  !  submit,  submit,  there's  the  rub  !  Give  yourself  up 
to  his  guidance  !  Throw  up  the  reins,  and  say  you've  made  a 
mess  of  it.  Well,  why  not  ?  Haven't  I  made  a  mess  of  it  ? 
Am  I  fit  to  hold  the  reins  1 


A  PROMISE   OF  FAIRER  WEATHER.  211 

"  Not  I " — he  got  up  and  began  walking  about  his  rooms— 
"  I  give  it  up." 

"  Give  it  up  !  "  he  went  on  presently  ;  "  yes,  but  to  whom  ? 
Not  to  the  diemon,  spirit,  whatever  it  was,  who  took  up  his 
abode  in  the  old  Athenian — at  least,  so  he  said,  and  so  I 
believe.  No,  no  !  Two  thousand  years  and  all  that  they  have 
seen  have  not  passed  over  the  Avorld  to  leave  us  just  where 
he  was  left.  We  want  no  diemons  or  spirits.  And  yet  the 
old  heathen  was  guided  right,  and  what  can  a  man  want 
more  1  and  who  ever  wanted  guidance  more  than  I  now — 
Iiere — in  this  room — at  this  minute  1  I  give  up  the  reins ; 
who  will  take  them?"  And  so  there  came  on  him  one  of 
those  seasons  when  a  man's  thoughts  cannot  be  followed  in 
Avords.  A  sense  of  awe  came  on  him,  and  over  him,  and 
wrapped  him  round  ;  awe  at  a  presence  of.  which  he  was 
becoming  sudderdy  conscious,  into  which  he  seemed  to  have 
wandered,  and  yet  which  he  felt  must  have  been  there,  around 
him,  in  his  own  heart  and  soul,  though  lie  knew  it  not.  There 
was  hope  and  longing  in  his  heart  mingling  with  the  fear  of 
that  presence,  but  withal  the  old  reckless  and  daring  feeling 
which  he  knew  so  weU,  still  bubbling  up  untamed,  untamabhj 
it  seemed  to  him. 

The  room  stifled  him  now;  so  he  threw  on  his  cap  and 
gown,  and  hurried  down  into  the  quadrangle.  It  was  very 
quiet;  probably  there  were  not  a  dozen  men  in  college.  He 
walked  across  to  the  low  dark  entrance  of  the  passage  which 
led  to  llardy's  rooms,  and  there  paused.  Was  he  there  by 
chance,  or  was  he  guided  there  1  Yes,  this  was  the  right  way 
for  him,  he  had  no  doubt  now  as  to  that ;  down  the  dark 
passage  and  into  the  room  he  knew  so  well — and  what  then  ? 
He  took  a  short  turn  or  two  before  the  entrance.  How  could 
he  be  sure  that  Hardy  was  alone  1  And,  if  not,  to  go  in 
would  be  worse  than  useless.  If  he  were  alone,  what  should 
he  say  1  After  all,  7)iusi  he  go  in  there  ?  was  there  no  way 
but  that  ? 

The  college  clock  struck  a  quarter  to  seven.  It  was  his 
usual  time  for  "  The  Choughs ; "  the  house  would  be  quiet 
now  ;  was  there  not  one  looldng  out  for  him  there  who  would 
be  gxieved  if  he  did  not  come  1  After  all,  might  not  tliat  be 
his  way,  for  this  night  at  least  1  He  might  bring  pleasure  to 
one  human  being  by  going  there  at  once.  That  he  knew ; 
what  else  could  he  be  sure  of  1 

At  this  moment  he  heard  Hardy's  door  open,  and  a  voice 
saying  "  Good  night,"  and  the  next  Grey  came  out  of  the 
passage,  and  was  passing  close  to  him, 

"Join  yourself  to  him."  The  impulse  came  so  «tronglv 
p  2 


212  TOM   BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

into  Tom's  mind  this  time,  that  it  was  like  a  voice  spealdng 
to  him.  He  yielded  to  it,  and,  stepping  to  Grey's  side,  wished 
him  good  evening.  The  other  returned  his  salute  in  his  shy 
way,  and  was  hurrying  on,  but  Tom  kept  by  him. 

"  Have  you  been  reading  with  Hardy  ]  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  is  he  ?  I  have  not  seen  anything  of  him  for  some 
time." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  I  tliink,"  said  Grey,  glancing  sideways  at 
his  questioner,  and  adding,  after  a  moment,  "I  have  wondei'cd 
rather  not  to  see  you  tliere  of  late." 

"  Are  you  going  to  your  school  ] "  said  Tom,  breaking  away 
from  tlie  subject. 

"  Yes,  and  I  am  rather  late  ;  I  must  make  haste  on ;  gooil 
night." 

"Will  you  lot  me  go  with  you  to-night?  It  would  be  f» 
real  Icindncss.  Indeed,"  he  added,  as  he  saw  how  embarrassing 
his  proposal  was  to  Grey,  "  I  will  do  whatever  you  tell  me — 
you  don't  know  how  grateful  I  shall  be  to  you.  Do  let  me 
go — ^just  for  to-night.     Try  me  once." 

Grey  hesitated,  turned  his  head  sharply  once  or  twice  as 
Uiey  walked  on  together,  and  then  said  mth  something  like 
a  sigh — 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Did  you  ever  teach  in  a  night- 
school  ? " 

"  ^o,  but  I  have  taught  in  tlie  Sunday-school  at  home 
sometimes.     Indeed,  I  will  do  whatever  you  tell  me." 

"  Oh !  but  this  is  not  at  all  like  a  Sunday-school.  They 
are  a  very  rough,  wild  lot." 

"  The  rougher  the  better,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  shall  know  how 
to  manage  them  then." 

"  But  you  must  not  really  be  rough  with  them," 

"  No,  I  won't ;  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Tom  hastily,  for 
he  saw  his  mistake  at  once.  "  I  shall  take  it  as  a  great  favour, 
if  you  win  let  me  go  with  you  to-night.  You  won't  repent 
it,  I'm  sure." 

Grey  did  not  seem  at  all  sure  of  this,  but  saw  no  means  of 
getting  rid  of  his  companion,  and  so  they  walked  on  together 
and  turned  down  a  long  narrow  court  in  the  lowest  part  of 
the  town.  At  the  doors  of  the  houses,  labouring  men,  mostly 
Irish,  lounged  or  stood  about,  smoking  and  talking  to  one 
another,  or  to  the  women  who  leant  out  of  the  windows,  or 
passed  to  and  fro  on  their  various  errands  of  business  or 
pleasure.  A  group  of  half-grown  lads  were  playing  at  pitch- 
farthing  at  the  farther  end,  and  all  over  the  court  were 
scattered  children  of  all  ages,  ragged  and  noisy  little  creatuxPiR 


A   PROMISE   OF   FAIRER   WEATHER.  213 

most  of  them,  on  whom  paternal  and  maternal  admonitions 
and  cuffs  were  constantly  being  expended,  and  to  all  a])pear- 
ances  in  vain. 

At  the  sight  of  Grey  a  shout  arose  amongst  the  smaller 
boys,  of  "  Here's  the  teacher ! "  and  they  crowded  round  him 
and  Tom  as  they  went  up  the  court.  Several  of  the  men 
gave  him  a  half-surly  half- respectful  nod,  as  he  passed  along, 
wishing  them  good  evening.  The  rest  merely  stared  at  him 
and  his  companion.  They  stopped  at  a  door  which  Grey 
opened,  and  led  the  way  into  the  passage  of  an  old  tumble- 
down cottage,  on  the  ground  floor  of  which  were  two  low 
rooms  which  served  for  the  scliool-rooms. 

A  hard-featured,  middle-aged  woman,  who  kept  the  house, 
was  waiting,  and  said  to  Grey,  "  Mr.  Jones  told  me  to  say, 
sir,  he  would  not  be  here  to-night,  as  he  has  got  a  bad  fever 
ease — so  you  was  to  take  only  the  lower  classes,  sir,  he  said  ; 
and  the  policeman  would  bo  near  to  keep  out  the  big  boys 
if  you  wanted  him.  Shall  I  go  and  tell  him  to  step  round, 
sir  ? " 

Grey  looked  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  No, 
never  mind  :  you  can  go  ; "  and  then,  turning  to  Tom,  added, 
"  Jones  is  the  curate ;  he  won't  be  here  to-night ;  and  some 
of  the  bigger  boys  are  very  noisy  and  troublesome,  and  only 
come  to  make  a  noise.  However,  if  they  come  we  must  do 
our  best." 

Meantime,  the  crowd  of  small  ragged  urchins  had  filled  the 
room,  and  were  swarming  on  to  the  benches  and  squabbling 
for  the  copy-books  which  were  laid  out  on  the  thin  desks. 
Grey  set  to  work  to  get  them  into  order,  and  soon  the 
smallest  were  draughted  o(f  into  the  iiu^.er  room  with  slates 
and  spelling-books,  and  the  bigger  ones,  some  dozen  in 
number,  settled  to  their  writing.  Tom  seconded  him  so 
reailily,  and  seemed  so  much  at  home,  that  Grey  felt  quite 
relieved. 

"  You  seem  to  get  on  ca])ital]y,"  he  said  ;  "  I  will  go  into 
the  inner  room  to  the  little  ones,  and  you  stay  and  take  these. 
There  are  the  class-books  when  they  have  done  their  copies," 
and  so  went  off  into  the  inner  room  and  closed  the  door. 

Tom  set  himself  to  work  with  a  will,  and  as  he  bent  over 
one  after  another  of  the  pupils,  and  guided  the  small  grubby 
hands  which  clutched  the  inky  pens  with  cramyjcd  fingers,  and 
went  spluttering  and  blotching  along  the  Unes  of  the  copy- 
books, felt  the  yellow  scales  dropping  from  his  eyes,  and  more 
tvarmth  coming  back  into  his  heart  than  he  had  known  there 
for  many  a  day. 

All  went  on  well  inside,  notAvithstanding  a  few  small  out- 


214  TOM   BROWN  AT   OXFOED. 

breaks  "between  the  scholars,  but  every  now  and  then  mud 
was  thrown  against  the  window,  and  noises  outside  and  in 
the  passage  threatened  some  interruption.  At  last,  when  tlie 
writing  was  finished,  the  copy-books  cleared  away,  and  the 
class-books  distributed,  the  door  opened,  and  two  or  three  big 
boys  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  lounged  in,  with  theii"  hands  in  their 
pockets  and  their  caps  on.  There  was  an  insolent  look  about 
them  which  set  Tom's  back  up  at  once  ;  however,  he  kept  his 
temper,  made  them  take  their  caps  off,  and,  as  they  said  they 
wanted  to  read  with  the  rest,  let  them  take  their  places  on 
the  benches. 

But  now  came  the  tug  of  war.  He  could  not  keep  his  eyes 
on  the  whole  lot  at  once,  and,  no  sooner  did  he  fix  his  attention 
on  the  stammering  reader  for  the  time  being  and  try  to  help 
him,  than  anarchy  broke  out  all  round  him.  Small  stones 
and  shot  were  thown  about,  and  cries  arose  from  the  smaller 
fry,  "  Please,  sir,  he's  been  and  poured  some  ink  down  my 
back,"  "  He's  stole  my  book,  sir,"  "  He's  gone  and  stuck  a  pin 
in  my  leg."  The  evil-doers  were  so  cunning  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  catch  them  ;  but,  as  he  was  hastily  turning  in  his 
own  mind  what  to  do,  a  cry  arose,  and  one  of  the  benches 
went  suddenly  over  backwards  on  to  the  floor,  carrying  with 
it  its  whole  freight  of  boj's,  except  two  of  the  bigger  ones, 
who  were  the  evident  aiithors  of  the  mishap. 

Tom  sprang  at  the  one  nearest  liim,  seized  him  by  the  collar, 
hauled  him  into  the  passage,  and  sent  him  out  of  the  street- 
door  with  a  sound  kick  ;  and  then,  rushing  back,  caught  hold 
of  the  second,  who  went  down  on  his  back  and  clung  round 
Tom's  legs,  shoutmg  for  help  to  his  remaining  companion,  and 
struggling  and  swearing.  It  was  all  the  work  of  a  moment, 
and  now  the  door  opened,  and  Grey  appeared  from  the  inner 
room.  Tom  left  off  hauling  his  jjrize  towards  the  passage,  and 
felt  and  looked  very  foolish. 

"This  fellow,  and  another  whom  I  have  turned  out,  upset 
that  form  with  all  the  little  boys  on  it,"  he  said,  apolo- 
getically. 

"  It's  a  lie,  'twasn't  me,"  roared  the  captive,  to  whom  Tom 
administered  a  sound  box  on  the  ear,  while  the  small  boys, 
rubbing  different  parts  of  their  bodies,  chorused,  "  'twas  him, 
teacher,  'twas  him,"  and  heaped  further  charges  of  pinching, 
pin-stickmg,  and  other  atrocities  on  him. 

Grey  astonished  Tom  by  his  firmness.  "  Don't  strike  him 
again,"  he  said.  "Now,  go  out  at  once,  or  I  will  send  for 
your  father."  The  fellow  got  up,  and,  after  standing  a 
moment  and  considering  his  chance  of  successful  resistance 
to  physical  force  in  the  person  of  Tom,  and  moral  in  that  uf 


A    PROMISE   OF   FAIEER   WTIATHER.  215 

Grey,  slunk  out.    "You  must  go  too,  Murphy,"  went  on  Grey 
to  another  of  the  ictruders. 

"  Oh,  your  honour,  let  me  bide.  I'll  be  as  quiet  as  a  mouse," 
pleaded  the  Irish  boy ;  and  Tom  would  have  given  in,  but 
Grey  was  unyielding. 

"  You  Avere  turned  out  last  week,  and  IVIr.  Jones  said  you 
were  not  to  come  back  for  a  fortnight." 

"  Weil,  good  night  to  yovir  honour,"  said  Murphy,  and  took 
himself  off. 

"  The  rest  may  stop,"  said  Grey.  "  You  had  better  take 
the  inner  room  now ;  I  will  stay  here." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Tom. 

"  You  couldn't  help  it  ;  no  one  can  manage  those  two. 
Murphy  is  qi;ite  different,  but  I  should  have  spoiled  him  if  I 
had  let  him  stay  now." 

The  remaining  haK-hour  passed  off  quietly.  Tom  retired 
into  the  inner  room,  and  took  up  Grey's  lesson,  which  he  had 
been  reading  to  the  boys  from  a  large  Bible  with  pictures. 
Out  of  consideration  for  their  natural  and  acquired  restless- 
ness, the  little  fellows,  who  were  all  between  eight  and  eleven 
years  old,  were  only  kept  sitting  at  their  pot-hooks  and  spelling 
for  the  first  half-hour  or  so,  and  then  were  allowed  to  crowd 
round  the  teacher,  who  read  and  talk  to  them,  and  showed 
them  the  pictures.  Tom  found  the  Bible  open  at  the  story 
of  the  prodigal  son,  and  read  it  out  to  them  as  they  clustered 
round  his  knees.  Some  of  the  outside  ones  fidgeted  about  a 
little,  but  those  close  round  him  listened  with  ears,  and  ej^cs, 
and  bated  breath  ;  and  two  little  blue-eyed  boys  without  shoes 
• — their  ragged  clothes  concealed  by  long  i)inafores  wliich  theif 
widowed  mother  had  put  on  clean  to  send  them  to  school — 
leaned  against  him  and  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  his  heart 
warmed  to  the  touch  and  the  look.  "  Please,  teacher, 
read  it  again,"  they  said  when  he  finished  ;  so  he  read  it 
again,  and  sighed  when  Grey  came  in  and  lighted  a  candle 
(for  tha  room  was  getting  dark)  and  said  it  was  time  fur 
prayers. 

A  few  collects,  and  the  Lord's  Prayer,  in  which  all  the 
young  voices  joined,  drowning  for  a  minute  the  noises  from 
the  court  outside,  finished  the  evening's  schooling.  The  cliil- 
dren  trooped  out,  and  Grey  went  to  speak  to  the  woman  who 
kept  the  house.  Tom,  left  to  himself,  felt  strangely  happy, 
and,  for  something  to  do,  took  the  snuffers  and  commenced  a 
crusade  against  a  large  family  of  bugs,  who,  taking  advantage 
of  the  quiet,  came  cruising  out  of  a  crack  in  the  otherwise 
neatly  papered  wall.  Some  dozen  had  fallen  on  his  spear 
when  Grey  re-appeared,  and  was  much  horrified  at  the  sight, 


21G  TOM  BROWN   AT  OXFORD. 

lie  called  tlie  woman,  and  told  her  to  have  the  hole  carefully 
fumigated  and  mended. 

"  I  thought  we  had  killed  them  all  long  ago,"  he  said  j 
"but  the  place  is  tumbling  down." 

"  It  looks  well  enough,"  said  Tom. 

"  Yes,  we  have  it  kept  as  tidy  as  possible.  It  ought  to  bo 
at  least  a  little  better  than  what  the  children  see  at  home." 
And  so  they  left  the  school  and  court  and  walked  up  to 
college. 

"  "WTiere  are  you  going  1 "  Tom  said,  as  they  entered  the 
gate. 

"  To  Hardy's  rooms  ;  will  you  come  V 

"No,  not  to-night,"  said  Tom,  "I  know  that  you  want  to 
bo  reading  ;  I  should  only  interrupt." 

'■  Well,  good-night,  then,"  said  Grey,  and  went  on,  leaving 
Tom  standing  in  the  porch.  On  the  way  up  from  the  school 
ho  had  almost  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  Hardy's  rooms  that 
night.  He  longed,  and  yet  feared  to  do  so  ;  and,  on  the  whole, 
was  not  sorry  for  an  excuse.  Their  first  meeting  must  be 
alone,  and  it  would  be  a  very  embarrassing  one,  for  him  at 
any  rate.  Grey,  he  hojoed,  would  tell  Hardy  of  his  visit  to 
the  school,  and  that  would  show  that  he  was  coming  round, 
and  make  the  meeting  easier.  His  talk  with  Grey,  too,  had 
removed  one  great  cause  of  uneasiness  from  his  mind.  It  was 
now  quite  clear  that  he  had  no  suspicion  of  the  quarrel,  and, 
if  Hardy  had  not  told  him,  no  one  else  could  knoAv  of  it. 

Altogether,  he  strolled  into  the  quadrangle  a  happier  and 
sounder  man  than  he  had  been  since  his  first  visit  to  "  The 
Choughs,"  and  looked  up  and  answered  with  his  oid  look  and 
voice  when  he  heard  liis  name  called  from  one  of  the  first- 
floor  windows. 

The  bailer  was  Drysdale,  who  was  leaning  out  in  lounging- 
coat  and  velvet  cap,  and  enjoying  a  cigar  as  usual,  in  the  midst 
of  the  flowers  of  his  hanging  garden. 

"  You've  heard  the  good  news,  I  suppose  V 

"  No,  what  do  3'ou  mean  1 " 

"  Wliy,  Blake  has  got  the  Latin  verse." 

*'  Hurrah  !     I'm  so  glad." 

"  Come  up  and  have  a  weed."  Tom  ran  up  the  staircase 
and  into  Drysd ale's  rooms,  and  was  leaning  out  of  the  window 
at  his  side  in  another  minute. 

"  AYhat  does  he  get  by  it  1 "  he  said,  "  do  you  know  1 " 

"  No ;    some   books    bound  in   Russia,   1   dare   say,   with 
the  Oxford  arms,  and  'Dominus  illuminatio   mea'   on   tk 
Lack. 

"  No  money  1 " 


k   PEOMISE   OF   FAIEEE  W'T:ATUEE.  217 

"  Not  much — perhaps  a  ten'uer,"  answered  Drysdale,  hut 
no  end  of  KvSor,  I  suppose." 

"  It  makes  it  look  well  for  his  first,  don't  you  think  ?  But 
I  wish  he  had  got  some  money  for  it.  I  often  feel  very 
uiicomfortahle  ahout  that  hill,  don't  you  1 " 

"  Kot  I,  what's  the  good '?  It's  nothing  when  you  are 
used  to  it.     Besides,  it  don't  fall  due  for  another  six  weeks." 

"  But  if  Blake  can't  meet  it  then  1 "  said  Tom. 

"  Well,  it  will  be  vacation,  and  I'll  trouble  greasy  Benjamin 
to  catch  me  then." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  won't  pay  it  ?"  said  Tom 
in  horror. 

"  Pay  it !  You  may  trust  Benjamin  for  that.  He'll  pull 
round  his  little  usuries  somehow." 

"  Only  we  have  promised  to  pay  on  a  certain  day,  you 
know." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  that's  the  form.  That  only  means  that  ho 
can't  pinch  us  sooner." 

"  I  do  hope,  though,  Drysdale,  that  it  will  be  paid  on  the 
day,"  said  Tom,  who  could  not  quite  swallow  the  notion  of 
forfeiting  his  word,  even  though  it  were  only  a  promise  to  pay 
to  a  scoiuidrel. 

"  All  right.  You've  nothing  to  do  with  it,  remember.  He 
won't  bother  you.  Besides,  you  can  plead  infancy,  if  tho 
worst  comes  to  the  worst.  There's  such  a  queer  old  bird 
gone  to  your  friend  Hardy's  rooms." 

The  mention  of  Hardy  broke  the  disagreeable  train  of 
thought  into  which  Tom  was  falling,  and  he  listened  eagerly 
as  Diysdale  went  on. 

"  It  was  about  half  an  hour  ago.  1  was  looking  out  here, 
and  saw  an  old  fellow  come  hobbling  into  quad  on  two  sticlcs, 
in  a  shady  blue  uniform  coat  and  white  trousers.  The  kind 
of  old  boy  you  read  about  in  books,  you  know.  Commodore 
Trunnion,  or  Uncle  Toby,  or  one  of  that  sort,  ^\^ell,  I 
watched  him  backing  and  filing  about  the  quad,  and  trying 
one  staircase  and  another ;  but  there  was  nobody  about.  So 
doA\Ti  I  trotted,  and  went  up  to  him  for  fun,  and  to  see 
what  he  was  after.  It  was  as  good  as  a  play,  if  you  could 
have  seen  it.  I  was  ass  enough  to  take  off  my  cap  and 
make  a  low  bow  as  I  came  up  to  him,  and  he  pulled  olf 
his  uniform  cap  in  return,  and  w^e  stood  there  bowing  to 
one  another.  He  was  a  thorough  old  gentleman,  and  I  felt 
rather  foolish  for  fear  he  should  see  that  I  expected  a  lark 
Avlien  I  came  out.  But  I  don't  think  he  had  an  idea  of  it, 
and  only  set  my  capping  him  down  to  the  wonderful  good 
miumers  of  the  college.     So  we  got  quite  tluck,  and  I  piloted 


218  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

hiin  across  to  Hardy's  staircase  in  the  back  quad.  I  wanted 
him  to  come  up  and  quench,  but  he  declined,  with  many 
apologies.     I'm  sure  he  is  a  character." 

"  He  must  be  Hardy's  father,"  said  Tom. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder.     But  is  his  father  m  the  navy  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  retired  captain." 

■'  Then  no  doubt  you're  right.  What  shall  we  do  1  Have 
a  hand  at  picquet.  Some  men  will  bo  here  directly.  Only 
for  love." 

Tom  declined  the  proffered  game,  and  went  off  soon  after 
to  his  own  rooms,  a  happier  man  than  he  had  been  since  his 
first  night  at  "  The  Choughs." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    RKCONCILIATION. 

Tom  rose  in  the  morning  with  a  presentiment  that  all  would 
be  over  now  before  long,  and,  to  make  his  presentiment  come 
true,  resolved,  before  night,  to  go  himself  to  Hardy  and  give  in. 
All  he  reserved  to  himself  was  the  liberty  to  do  it  in  the  manner 
which  would  be  least  painful  to  himself.  He  was  greatly 
annoyed,  therefore,  when  Hardy  did  not  appear  at  morning 
chapel ;  for  he  had  fixed  on  the  leaving  chapel  as  the  least  un- 
pleasant time  in  which  to  begin  his  confession,  and  was  going 
to  catch  Hardy  then,  and  follow  him  to  his  rooms.  All  the 
morning,  too,  in  answer  to  his  inquiries  by  his  scout  Wiggins, 
Hardy's  scout  replied  that  his  master  was  out,  or  busy.  He 
did  not  come  to  the  boats,  he  did  not  appear  in  hall ;  so  that, 
after  hall,  when  Tom  went  back  to  his  own  rooms,  as  he  did 
at  once,  instead  of  sauntering  out  of  college,  or  going  to  a 
wine  party,  he  was  quite  out  of  heart  at  his  bad  luck,  ar.d 
began  to  be  afraid  that  he  would  have  to  sleep  on  his  unhealed 
wound  another  night. 

He  sat  down  La  an  arm-chair,  and  fell  to  musing,  and 
thought  how  wonderfully  his  life  had  been  changed  in  these 
few  short  weeks.  He  could  hardly  get  back  across  the  gulf 
which  separated  him  from  the  self  who  had  come  back  into 
those  rooms  after  Easter,  full  of  anticipations  of  the  pleasures 
and  delights  of  the  coming  summer  term  and  vacation.  To 
his  own  surprise  he  didn't  seem  much  to  regret  the  loss  of  his 
chdteaux  en  Espagne,  and  felt  a  sort  of  grim  satisfaction  in 
their  utter  overthrow. 

While  occupied  wdth  these  thoughts,  he  heard  talking  on 
his  stairs,  accompanied  by  a  strange  lumbering  tread.     These 


THE    RECONCILIATION.  219 

came  nearer  ;  and  at  last  stopped  jx;st  outside  his  door,  which 
opened  in  another  mom-ent,  and  Wiggins  announced — 

"  Cap  ting  Hardy,  sir." 

Tom  jumped  to  his  legs,  and  felt  himself  colour  painfully. 
"  Here,  Wiggins,"  said  he,  **  wheel  round  that  arm-chair  for 
(^aptain  Hardy.  I  am  so  very  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  and  he 
hastened  round  himself  to  meet  the  old  gentleman,  holding 
out  his  hand,  which  the  visitor  took  very  cordially,  as  soon  as 
he  had  passed  his  heavy  stick  to  his  left  hand,  and  balanced 
himself  safely  upon  it. 

"Thank  you,  sir  ;  thank  you,"  said  the  old  man  after  a  few 
moments'  pause,  "  I  find  j^our  companion  ladders  rather 
steep  ;"  and  then  he  sat  down  with  some  difficulty. 

Tom  took  the  Captain's  stick  and  undress  cap,  and  put 
them  reverentially  on  his  sideboard  ;  and  then,  to  get  rid  of 
some  little  nervousness  which  he  couldn't  help  feeling,  bustled 
to  his  cupboard,  and  helped  Wiggins  to  place  glasses  and 
biscuits  on  the  table.  "  Now,  sir,  what  will  you  take  1  I 
have  port,  sherry,  and  whiskey  here,  and  can  get  you  any- 
thing else.     Wiggins,  run  to  Hinton's  and  get  some  dessert." 

"  No  dessert,  thank  you,  for  me,"  said  the  Captain  ;  "  I'll 
take  a  cup  of  coffee,  or  a  glass  of  grog,  or  anything  you  have 
ready.     Don't  open  wine  for  me,  pray,  sir." 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  the  better  for  being  opened,"  said  Tom, 
working  away  at  a  bottle  of  sherry  with  his  corkscrew — "  and, 
"\V  iggins,  get  some  coffee  and  anchovy  toast  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ;  and  just  put  out  some  tumblers  and  toddy  ladles,  and 
bring  up  boiling  water  with  the  coffee." 

While  making  his  hospitable  preparations,  Tom  managed 
to  get  many  side-glances  at  the  old  man,  who  sat  looking 
steadily  and  abstractedly  before  him  into  the  fireplace,  and  was 
much  struck  and  touched  by  the  picture.  The  sailor  wore  a 
well-preserved  old  undress  uniform  coat  and  waistcoat,  and 
white  drill  trousers  ;  he  was  a  man  of  middle  height,  but 
gaunt  and  massive,  and  Tom  recognised  the  framework  of  the 
long  arms  and  grand  shoulders  and  chest  which  he  had  so 
often  admired  in  the  son.  His  right  leg  was  quite  stiff  from 
an  old  wound  on  the  kneecap  ;  the  left  eye  was  sightless,  and 
the  scar  of  a  cutlass  travelled  down  the  drooping  lid  and  on 
to  the  weather-beaten  cheek  below.  His  head  was  high  and 
broad,  his  hair  and  whiskers  silver  white,  while  the  shaggy 
eyebrows  were  scarcely  grizzled.  His  face  was  deeply  lined, 
and  the  long  clean-cut  loAver  jaw,  and  drawn  look  about  the 
mouth,  gave  a  grim  expression  to  the  face  at  the  first  glance, 
wliich  wore  off  as  you  looked,  leaving,  however,  on  most  men 
who  thought  about  it,  the  impression  which  fastened  on  our 


220  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD, 

hero,  "  iVii  awkward  man  to  have  met  at  the  head  of  boarders 
towards  the  end  of  the  great  war." 

In  a  minute  or  two  Tom,  having  completed  his  duties, 
faced  the  old  sailor,  much  reassured  by  his  covert  inspection ; 
and,  pouring  himself  out  a  glass  of  sherry,  pushed  the 
decanter  across,  and  drank  to  his  guest. 

"  Your  health,  sir,"  he  said,  "  and  thank  you  very  much  for 
coming  up  to  see  me." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  Captain,  rousing  himself  and 
filling,  "  I  drink  to  you,  sir.  The  fact  is,  I  took  a  great 
liberty  in  coming  up  to  your  rooms  in  this  off-hand  way, 
•without  calling  or  sending  up,  but  you'll  excuse  it  in  an  old 
eaDor."  Here  the  Captain  took  to  his  glass,  and  seemed  a 
little  embarrassed.  Tom  felt  embarrassed  also,  feeling  that 
poiuething  was  coming,  and  could  only  think  of  asking  how 
the  Captain  liked  the  sherry.  The  Captain  liked  the  sheiTy 
very  much.  Then,  suddenly  clearing  his  throat,  he  went  on. 
"  I  felt,  sir,  that  you  would  excuse  me,  for  I  have  a  favour  to 
ask  of  you."  He  paused  again,  while  Tom  muttered  some- 
thing about  "  gi'eat  pleasure,"  and  then  went  on. 
"  You  know  my  son,  I\Ir.  Brown  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  he  has  been  my  best  friend  up  hero  ;  I  owe 
more  to  him  than  to  any  man  in  Oxford." 

The  Captain's  eye  gleamed  with  pleasure  as  he  replied, 
"  Jack  is  a  noble  fellow,  Mr.  Brown,  though  I  say  it  who  am 
his  father.  I've  often  jDromised  myself  a  cruise  to  Oxford 
since  he  has  been  here.  I  came  here  at  last  j'cstorday,  and 
have  been  having  a  long  yarn  with  him.  I  found  there  was 
something  on  his  mind.  He  can't  keep  anything  from  his 
old  father  :  and  so  I  drew  out  of  him  that  he  loves  you  as 
David  loved  Jonathan.  He  made  my  old  eye  very  dim  while 
he  was  talking  of  you,  Mr.  Brown.  And  then  I  found  that 
you  two  are  not  as  you  used  to  be.  Some  coldness  sprung  up 
between  you  ;  but  what  about  I  couldn't  get  at.  Young  men 
are  often  hasty — I  know  I  was,  fort^'  j'oars  ago — Jack  says  he 
has  been  hasty  with  you.  Now,  that  boy  is  all  I  have  in  the 
world,  Mr.  Brown.  I  Icnow  my  boy's  friend  will  Uko  to  send 
an  old  man  home  with  a  light  heart.  So  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  come  over  to  you  and  ask  you  to  make  it  up  with  Jack.  I 
gave  him  the  slip  after  dinner  and  here  I  am." 
"  Oh,  sir,  did  he  really  ask  you  to  come  to  me  ?" 
"  No,  sir,"  said  the  Captain,  "  he  did  not — I'm  son-y  for  it 
— I  think  Jack  must  be  in  the  wrong,  for  he  said  he  had  been 
too  hasty,  and  yet  he  wouldn't  ask  me  to  come  to  you  and 
make  it  up.  But  he  is  young,  sir  ;  young  and  proud.  He 
said  he  coiddn't  move  in  it,  his  mind  was  made  up  ;  he  was 


THE   RECONCILIATION.  221 

wretched  enough  over  it,  but  the  move  must  come  from  you. 
And  so  that's  the  favour  I  have  to  ask,  that  you  ■will  make  it 
up  with  Jack.  It  isn't  often  a  young  man  can  do  such  a 
favour  to  an  old  one — to  an  old  father  with  one  son.  You'll 
not  feel  the  worse  for  having  done  it,  if  it's  ever  so  hard  to 
do,  when  you  come  to  he  my  age."  And  the  old  man  looked 
wistfully  across  the  table,  the  muscles  about  his  mouth 
quivermg  as  he  ended. 

Tom  sprang  from  his  chair,  and  grasped  the  old  sailor's 
hand,  as  he  felt  the  load  pass  out  of  his  heart.  "  Favour, 
sir!"  he  said,  "I  have  been  a  mad  fool  enough  already  in 
this  business — I  should  have  been  a  double-dyed  scoundrel, 
like  enough,  by  this  tune  but  for  your  son,  and  I've  quarrelled 
with  him  for  stopping  me  at  the  pit's  mouth.  Favour  !  If 
God  will,  I'll  prove  somehow  where  the  favour  lies,  and  what 
I  owe  to  him  ;  and  to  you,  sir,  for  coming  to  me  to-night. 
Stop  here  two  minutes,  sir,  and  I'll  run  do^vn  and  bring  him 
over." 

Tom  tore  away  to  Hardy's  door  and  knocked.  There  was 
no  pausing  in  the  passage  now.  "  Come  in."  He  opened  the 
door  but  did  not  enter,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  could  not 
speak.  The  rush  of  associations  which  the  sight  of  the  well- 
known  old  rickety  furniture,  and  the  figin-e  which  was  seated, 
book  in  hand,  Avith  its  back  to  the  door  and  its  feet  up 
against  one  side  of  the  mantel-})iece,  called  up,  choked  him. 

"  May  I  come  in  1"  he  said  at  last. 

He  saw  the  figure  give  a  start,  and  the  book  trembled  a 
Uttle,  but  then  came  the  answer,  slow  but  firm — 

"  I  have  not  changed  my  opinion." 

"  No  ;  dear  old  boy,  but  I  have,"  and  Tom  rushed  across  to 
his  friend,  dearer  than  ever  to  him  now,  and  threw  his  arm 
roimd  his  neck  ;  and,  if  the  un-English  truth  must  out.  had 
three  parts  of  a  mind  to  kiss  the  rough  face  which  was  now 
working  with  strong  emotion. 

"  Thank  God  !"  said  Hardy,  as  he  grasped  the  hand  which 
hung  over  his  shoulder. 

"  And  now  come  over  to  my  rooms  ;  your  father  is  there 
waiting  for  us." 

"  "What,  the  dear  old  governor  1  That's  what  he  has  been 
after,  is  it  1  I  couldn't  think  where  he  could  have  '  hove  to,' 
as  he  would  say." 

Hardy  put  on  his  cap,  and  the  two  hurried  back  to  Ton' 'a 
rooms,  the  lightest  hearts  in  the  University  of  Oxford. 


222  TOM    BKOWN   AT    OXFORD. 

CIIAPTEK  XXI. 

CAPTAIN    HARDY    ENTERTAINED    BY    ST.    AIIBIIOSE. 

There  are  moments  iii  the  life  of  the  most  self-coiitain?rl 
and  sober  of  us  all,  when  we  fairly  bubble  over,  Uke  a  full 
bottle  of  champagne  witli  the  cork  out  ;  and  this  was  one  of 
them  for  our  hero,  who,  however,  be  it  remarked,  was  neitber 
scK-contained  nor  sober  by  nature.  When  they  got  back  to 
his  rooms,  he  really  hardly  knew  what  to  do  to  give  vent  to 
his  lightness  of  heart ;  and  Hardy,  though  self-contained  and 
sober  enough  in  general,  was  on  this  occasion  almost  as  bad 
as  hi3  friend.  They  rattled  on,  talked  out  the  thing  which 
came  uppermost,  whatever  the  subject  might  chance  to  be  ; 
but,  whether  grave  or  gay,  it  always  ended  after  a  minute  or 
two  in  jokes  not  always  good,  and  chaff,  and  laughter.  The 
poor  Captain  was  a  little  puzzled  at  first,  and  made  one  or  two 
endeavours  to  turn  the  talk  into  improving  channels.  But 
very  soon  he  saw  that  Jack  was  thoroughly  happy,  and  that 
was  always  enough  for  him.  So  he  hstencd  to  one  and  the 
other,  joming  cheerily  in  the  laugh  whenever  he  could  ;  and, 
when  he  couldn't  catch  the  joke,  looking  like  a  benevolent 
old  lion,  and  making  as  much  belief  that  he  had  understood 
it  all  as  the  simplicity  and  truthfulness  of  his  character  would 
allow. 

The  sphits  of  the  two  friends  seemed  inexhaustible.  They 
lasted  out  the  bottle  of  sherry  which  Tom  had  uncorked,  and 
the  remains  of  a  bottle  of  his  famous  port.  He  had  tried  haixl 
to  be  allowed  to  open  a  fresh  bottle,  but  the  Caf)tain  hail 
made  such  a  point  of  his  not  doing  so,  that  he  had  given  in 
for  hospitality's  sake.  They  lasted  out  the  coffee  and  anchovy 
toast ;  after  which  the  Captain  made  a  little  effort  at  moving, 
which  was  supplicatingly  stopped  by  Tom. 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  go,  Cajitain  Hardy.  I  haven't  been  so 
happy  for  months.  Besides,  I  must  brew  you  a  glass  of  grog. 
I  pride  myself  on  my  brew.  Your  son  there  will  tell  you 
that  I  am  a  dead  hand  at  it.  Here,  Wiggins,  a  lemon  ! " 
shouted  Tom. 

"  Well,  for  once  in  a  way,  I  suppose.  Eh,  Jack  1 "  said 
the  Captain,  looking  at  his  son. 

"  Oh  yes,  father.  You  mayn't  know  it.  Brown,  but,  if  there 
is  one  thing  harder  to  do  than  another,  it  is  to  get  an  old 
sailor  like  my  father  to  take  a  glass  of  grog  at  night." 

The  Captain  laughed  a  Uttle  laugh,  and  shook  his  thick 
stick  at  his  son,  who  went  on. 

' '  And  as  for  asking  him  to  take  a  pipe  with  it — " 


CAPTAIN    HARDY   AT   ST.  AMBIIOSE.  223 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Tom,  "  I  quite  forgot.  I  really  beg  yoiir 
pardon,  Captain  Hardy  ;"  and  he  put  down  the  lemon  he  was 
squeezing,  and  produced  a  box  of  cigars. 

"  It's  all  Jack's  nonsense,  sir,"  said  the  Captain,  holding 
out  his  hand,  nevertheless,  for  the  box. 

"  Now,  father,  don't  be  absurd,"  interrupted  Hardy,  snatch- 
ing the  box  aw?,y  from  him.  "  You  might  as  well  give  him  a 
glass  of  aljsinthe.  He  is  cliurchwarden  at  home,  and  can't 
smoke  anything  but  a  long  clay." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  I  haven't  one  here,  but  I  can  send  out  in 
a  minute."  And  Tom  was  making  for  the  door  to  shout  fo" 
AV'^iggins. 

"  No,  don't  call.     I'll  fetch  some  from  my  rooms." 

When  Hardy  left  the  room,  Tom  squeezed  away  at  his 
lemon,  and  was  preparing  himself  for  a  speech  to  Cajitain 
Hardy  full  of  confession  and  gratitude.  But  the  Captain  was 
before  him,  and  led  the  conversation  into  a  most  unexpected 
cliannel. 

"  I  suppose,  now,  Mr.  Brown,"  he  began,  "  you  don't  find 
any  difficulty  in  construing  your  Thucydides  ? " 

"  Indeed,  1  do,  sir,"  said  Tom,  laughing.  "  I  find  him  a 
very  tough  old  customer,  except  in  the  simplest  narrative." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  the  Captain,  "  I  can't  get  on  at  all,  I 
find,  without  a  translation.  But  you  see,  sir,  I  had  none  of 
the  advantages  which  you  young  men  have  up  here.  In  fact, 
Mr.  Brown,  I  didn't  begin  Greek  till  Jack  was  nearly  ten  years 
old."  The  Captain  in  his  secret  heart  was  prouder  of  his 
partial  victory  over  the  Greek  tongue  in  his  old  age,  than  of 
his  undisputed  triumphs  over  the  French  in  his  youth,  and 
was  not  averse  to  talking  of  it. 

"  I  wonder  that  you  ever  began  it  at  all,  sir,"  said  Tom. 

"  You  wouldn't  wonder  if  you  knew  how  an  uneducated 
ru;in  like  me  feels,  when  he  comes  to  a  place  like  Oxford." 

"  Uneducated,  sir  !  "  said  Tom.  "  Why  your  education  has 
been  worth  twice  as  much,  I'm  sure,  as  any  we  get  here." 

"  No,  sir ;  we  never  learnt  anything  in  the  navy  when  I 
was  a  youngster,  except  a  little  rule-of-thumb  mathematics. 
One  picked  up  a  sort  of  smattering  of  a  language  or  two 
knocking  about  the  world,  but  no  grammatical  knowledge, 
nothing  scientific.  K  a  boy  doesn't  get  a  method,  he  is  beat- 
ing to  windward  in  a  crank  craft  all  his  life.  He  hasn't  jot 
any  regular  place  to  stow  away  what  he  gets  into  his  brams, 
and  so  it  lies  tumbling  about  in  the  hold,  and  he  loses  it,  or 
it  gets  damaged  and  is  never  ready  for  use.  You  see  what  I 
mean,  Mr.  Brown  1 " 

'  Yes,  sir.     But  I'm  afraid  we  don't  all  of  us  get  much 


224  TOM  BROWN  AT   OXFORD. 

method  up  here.     Do  you  really  enjoy  reading  Thucydidi  9 
now,  Captain  Hardy  ]  " 

"Indeed  I  do,  sir,  very  much,"  said  the  Captain.     "There's 
a  great  deal  in  his  history  to  interest  an  old  sailor,  you  knoA^ 
I  dare  say,  now,  that  I  enjoy  those  parts  about  the  sea-fights 
more  than  you  do."     The  Captain  looked  at  Tom  as  if  he  had 
made  an  audacious  remark. 

"  I  am  sure  you  do,  sir,"  said  Tom,  smiling. 
"  Because  you  see,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  the  Captain,  "  when 
one  has  heen  in  that  sort  of  thing  oneself,  one  likes  to  read 
how  people  in  other  times  managed,  and  to  think  what  one 
would  have  done  in  their  place.  I  don't  believe  that  the 
Greeks  just  at  that  time  were  very  resolute  fighters,  though. 
Nelson  or  Collingwood  would  have  finished  that  war  in  a 
year  or  two." 

"  Not  with  triremes,  do  you  think,  sir  1 "  said  Tom. 
"  Yes,  sir,  with  any  vessels  which  were  to  be  had,"  said 
the  Captain.  "  But  you  are  right  about  triremes.  It  has 
always  been  a  great  puzzle  to  me  how  those  triremes  could 
have  been  worked.  IIow  do  you  understand  the  three  banks 
of  oars,  Mr.  Brown  1 " 

"  Well,  sir,  I  suppose  they  must  have  been  one  above  the 
other  somehow." 

"  But  the  upper  bank  must  have  had  oars  twenty  feet  lotig, 
and  more,  in  that  case,"  said  the  Captain.  "  You  must  allow 
for  leverage,  you  see." 

"  Of  course,  sir.  When  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  it  isn't 
easy  to  see  how  they  Avere  manned  and  worked,"  said  Tom. 

"Now  my  notion  about  triremes — "  began  the  Captain, 
holding  the  head  of  his  stick  with  both  hands,  and  looking 
across  at  Tom. 

"  Why,  father  ! "  cried  Hardy,  returning  at  the  moment 
with  the  pipes,  and  catcliing  the  Captain's  last  word,  "on  one 
of  your  hobby  horses  already  !  You're  not  safe  ! — I  can't 
leave  you  for  two  minutes.  Here's  n  long  pipe  for  you.  How 
ui  the  world  did  he  get  on  triremes  ? " 

"  I  hardly  know,"  said  Tom ;  "  but  T  want  to  hear  what 

(•aptain   Hardy  thinks   about  them.     You  were   saying,  sir, 

that  the  upper  oars  must  have  been  twenty  feet  long  at  least." 

"  My  notion  is — "  said  the  Captain,  taking  the  pipe  and 

tabacco-pouch  from  his  son's  hand. 

"  Stop  one  moment,"  said  Hardy  ;  "  I  found  Blake  at  my 

rooms,  and  asked  him  to  come  over  here.     You  don't  object 'J  " 

"  Object,  my  dear  fellow  !    I'm  much  obliged  to  you.    Now, 

Hardy,  would  you  like  to  have  any  one  else  ?     I  can  send  in 

a  minute." 


CAPTAIN   HAKDY   AT   ST.  AMBROSE.  225 

"No  one,  thank  you." 

"You  won't  stand  on  ceremony  now,  will  you,  with  me  V 
said  Tom. 

"  You  see  I  haven't." 

"  And  you  never  Avill  again  1 " 

"  No,  never.  Now,  father,  you  can  heave  ahead  about 
those  oars." 

'The  Captain  went  on  charging  his  pipe,  and  proceeded  : 
"  You  see,  Mr.  Brown,  they  must  have  been  at  least  twenty 
feet  long,  because,  if  you  allow  the  lowest  bank  of  oars  to 
have  been  three  feet  above  the  water-line,  which  even  Jack 
thinks  they  must  have  been — ^" 

"Certainly.  That  height  at  least  to  do  any  good,"  said 
Hardy. 

"  Not  that  I  think  Jack's  opinion  worth  much  on  the 
point,"  went  on  his  father. 

"  It's  very  ungrateful  of  you,  then,  to  say  so,  father,"  said 
Hardy,  "  after  all  the  time  I've  wasted  trying  to  make  it  all 
clear  to  you." 

"  I  don't  say  that  Jack's  is  not  a  good  opinion  on  most 
things,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  the  Captain  ;  "  but  he  is  all  at  sea 
about  tru'emes.  He  believes  that  the  men  of  the  uppermost 
bank  rowed  somehow  lilfe  lightermen  on  the  Thames,  walking 
up  and  down." 

"  I  object  to  your  statement  of  my  faith,  father,"  said 
Hardy. 

"Now  you  know.  Jack,  you  have  said  so,  often." 

•'  I  have  said  they  must  have  stood  up  to  row,  and 
so—" 

"You  would  have  had  awful  confusion.  Jack.  You  must 
liave  order  between  decks  when  you're  going  into  action. 
Besides,  the  rowers  had  cushions." 

"That  old  heresy  of  yours  again." 

"  Well,  but  Jack,  they  had  cushions.  Didn't  the  rowers 
who  were  marched  across  the  Isthmus  to  man  the  sliips 
which  were  to  surprise  the  Piraeus,  carry  their  oars,  thongs, 
and  cushions  1 " 

"  If  they  did,  your  conclusion  doesn't  foUow,  father,  that 
they  sat  on  them  to  row." 

"  You  hear,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  the  Captain  ;  "  he  admits  my 
point  about  the  cushions." 

"  Oh,  father,  I  hope  you  used  to  fight  the  French  more 
fairly,"  said  Hardy. 

"But,  didn't  he  1  Didn't  Jack  admit  my  point  1  " 

"  Implicity,  sir,  I  think,"  said  Tom,  catching  Hardy's  eye 
which  was  dancing  with  fun. 


226  TOM    BEOWN    AT    OXFOKD. 

"  Of  course  he  did.  You  hear  that,  Jack.  Now  my  notion 
about  triremes — " 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  the  Captain  again,  and 
Blake  came  in  and  was  introduced. 

"  Mr.  Blake  is  almost  our  best  scholar,  father  ;  you  should 
appeal  to  him  about  the  cusliions." 

"  I  am  very  proud  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir,"  said  the 
Captain  ;  "  I  have  heard  my  son  speak  of  you  often." 

"  We  were  talking  about  trii-emes,"  said  Tom  ;  "  Captain 
Hardy  thinks  the  oars  must  have  been  twenty  feet  long." 

"  Not  easy  to  come  forward  weU.  with  that  sort  of  oar," 
said  Blake  ;  "  they  must  have  pulled  a  slow  stroke." 

"  Our  torpid  would  have  bumped  the  best  of  them,"  said 
Hardy. 

"  I  don't  think  they  could  have  made  more  than  six  knots," 
said  the  Captain ;  "  but  yet  they  used  to  sink  one  another, 
and  a  light  boat  going  only  six  knots  couldn't  break  another 
in  two  amid -ships.     It's  a  puzzling  subject,  Mr.  Blake." 

"  It  is,  sir,"  said  Blake  ;  "  if  we  only  had  some  of  their 
fo'castle  songs  we  should  know  more  about  it.  I'm  afraid 
they  had  no  Dibdin." 

"  I  wish  you  would  turn  one  of  my  father's  favourite  songs 
into  anapaests  for  him,"  said  Hardy. 

"  What  are  they  1 "  said  Blake. 

"  *  Tom  Bowling,'  or  *  The  wind  that  blows,  and  the  ship 
that  goes,  and  the  lass  that  loves  a  sailor. '  " 

"  By  the  way,  why  shouldn't  we  have  a  song  ?  "  said  Tom. 
"  What  do  you  say.  Captain  Hardy  ?  " 

The  Captain  winced  a  little  as  he  saw  his  chance  of 
expounding  his  notion  as  to  triremes  slipping  away,  but 
answered, 

"  By  all  means,  sir  ;  Jack  must  sing  for  me  though.  Did 
you  ever  hear  him  sing  '  Tom  Bowling  '  1 " 

"  No,  never,  sir.  Why,  Hardy,  you  never  told  me  you 
could  sing." 

"  You  never  asked  me,"  said  Hardy,  laughing  ;  "  but  if  I 
sing  for  my  father,  he  must  spin  us  a  yarn." 

"  Oh  yes  ;  will  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  I'U  do  my  best,  Mr.  Brown  ;  but  I  don't  know  that  you'll 
care  to  Hsten  to  my  old  yarns.  Jack  thinks  everybody  must 
like  them  as  well  as  he,  who  used  to  hear  them  when  he  was 
a  child." 

"  Thank  you,  sir  ;  that's  famous.  Now  Hardy,  strike 
up." 

"  After  you.  You  must  set  the  example  in  your  own 
'•00  ms." 


CAPTAIN  HAKDY  AT   ST.  AMBROSE.  227 

So  Torn  sang  his  song.  And  the  noise  brought  Drysdale 
and  another  man  up,  who  were  loitering  in  quad  on  the  look- 
out for  something  to  do.  Drysdale  and  the  Captain  recog 
nised  one  another,  and  were  friends  at  once.  And  then 
Hardy  sang  "  Tom  Bowling,"  in  a  style  which  astonished  the 
rest  not  a  little,  and  as  usual  nearly  made  his  father  cry  ;  and 
Blake  sang,  and  Drysdale  and  the  other  man.  And  then  the 
Captaia  was  called  on  for  his  yarn  ;  and,  the  general  voice 
being  for  "something  that  had  happened  to  him,"  "the 
sti'angest  thing  that  had  ever  happened  to  him  at  sea,"  the  old 
gentleman  laid  down  his  pipe  and  sat  up  in  his  chau-  witt  liis 
hands  on  his  stick  and  began. 

THE    captain's   STORY. 

It  will  be  fortj"-  years  ago  next  month  since  the  ship  I  was 
then  in  came  home  from  the  AVest  Indies  station,  and  was 
paid  off.  I  had  nowhere  in  particular  to  go  just  then,  and  so 
was  very  glad  to  get  a  letter,  the  morning  after  I  went  ashore 
at  Portsmouth,  asking  me  to  go  down  to  Plymouth  for  a  week 
or  so.  It  came  from  an  old  sad  or,  a  friend  of  my  family,  who 
had  been  Commodore  of  the  fleet.  He  lived  at  Plymouth  ; 
he  was  a  thorough  old  sailor — what  you  young  men  would 
call  "  an  old  salt " — and  couldn't  live  out  of  sight  of  the  blue 
sea  and  the  sliipping.  It  is  a  disease  that  a  good  many  oT  us 
take  who  have  spent  our  best  years  on  the  sea.  I  have  it 
myself — a  sort  of  feeling  that  we  must  be  under  another  kind 
of  Providence,  when  we  look  out  and  see  a  hill  on  this  side 
and  a  hill  on  that.  It's  wonderful  to  see  the  trees  come  out 
and  the  corn  grow,  but  then  it  doesn't  come  so  home  to  an 
old  sailor.  I  know  that  we're  all  just  as  much  under  the 
Lord's  hand  on  shore  as  at  sea ;  but  you  can't  read  in  a  book 
you  haven't  been  used  to,  and  they  that  go  down  to  the  sea 
in  ships,  they  see  the  works  of  the  Lord  and  His  wonders  in 
the  deep.  It  isn't  their  fault  if  they  don't  see  His  wonders 
on  the  land  so  easily  as  other  people. 

But,  for  all  that,  there's  no  man  enjoys  a  cruise  in  the 
country  more  than  a  sailor.  It's  forty  years  ago  since  I  started 
for  Plymouth,  but  I  haven't  forgotten  the  road  a  bit,  or  how 
beautiful  it  was  ;  all  through  the  New  Forest,  and  over  Salis- 
bury Plain,  and  then  on  by  the  mail  to  Exeter,  and  through 
Devonshire.  It  took  me  thi-ee  days  to  get  to  Plymouth,  for 
we  didn't  get  about  so  quick  in  those  days. 

The  Commodore  was  very  kind  to  me  when  I  got  there, 
and  I  went  about  with  him  to  the  ships  in  the  bay,  and 
through  the  dock-yard,  and  picked  up  a  good  deal  that  was  of 
use  to  me  afterwards.     I  was  a  lieutenant  in  those  days,  and 


228  TOM   BEOWN    AT    OXFOED. 

had  seen  a  good  deal  of  service,  and  I  found  the  old  Commo- 
dore had  a  great  nephew  whom  he  had  adopted,  and  had  set 
his  whole  heart  upon.  He  was  an  old  bachelor  himself,  but 
the  boy  had  come  to  live  with  him,  and  was  to  go  to  sea  ;  so 
he  wanted  to  put  him  under  some  one  who  would  give  an  eye 
to  liim  for  the  first  year  or  two.  He  was  a  light  slip  of  a 
boy  then,  fourteen  years  old,  with  deep  set  blue  eyes  and  long 
eyelashes,  and  cheeks  like  a  girl's,  but  as  brave  as  a  lion  and 
as  merry  as  a  lark.  The  old  gentleman  was  very  pleased  to 
see  that  we  took  to  one  another.  We  used  to  bathe  and  boat 
together  ;  and  he  was  never  tired  of  hearing  my  stories  about 
the  great  admirals,  and  the  fleet,  and  the  stations  I  had 
been  on. 

Well,  it  was  agreed  that  I  should  apply  for  a  ship  again 
directly,  a^d  go  up  to  London  with  a  letter  to  the  Admu-alty 
from  the  Commodore,  to  help  things  on.  After  a  month  oi 
two  I  was  appointed  to  a  brig,  lying  at  Spithead ;  and  so  1 
wrote  off  to  the  Commodore,  and  he  got  his  boy  a  midship- 
man's berth  on  board,  and  brought  him  to  Portsmouth  him- 
self a  day  or  two  before  we  sailed  for  the  Mediterranean.  The 
old  gentleman  came  on  board  to  see  his  boy's  hammock  slung, 
and  went  below  into  the  cockpit  to  make  sure  that  all  was 
right.  He  only  left  us  by  the  pilot-boat  when  we  were  weL 
out  in  the  Channel.  He  was  very  low  at  parting  from  his 
boy,  but  bore  up  as  well  as  he  could ;  and  we  promised  to 
write  to  him  from  Gibraltar,  and  as  often  afterwards  as  we 
had  a  chance. 

I  was  soon  as  proud  and  fond  of  little  Tom  Holdsworth  as 
if  he  had  been  my  own  younger  brother  ;  and,  for  that  matter, 
so  were  aU  the  crew,  from  our  captain  to  the  cook's  boy.  He 
was  such  a  gallant  youngster,  and  yet  so  gentle.  In  one 
cutting-out  business  we  had,  he  climbed  over  the  boatswain's 
shoulders,  and  was  almost  first  on  deck ;  how  he  came  out  of 
it  without  a  scratch  I  can't  think  to  this  day.  But  he  hadn't 
a  bit  of  bluster  in  him,  and  was  as  kind  as  a  woman  to  any 
one  who  was  wounded  or  down  with  sickness. 

After  we  had  been  out  about  a  year  we  were  sent  to  cruise 
off  Malta,  on  the  looi£-out  for  the  French  fleet.  It  was  a  long 
business,  and  the  post  Avasn't  so  good  then  as  it  is  now.  We 
were  sometimes  for  months  without  getting  a  letter,  and  knew 
nothing  of  what  was  happening  at  home,  or  anywhere  else. 
We  had  a  sick  time  too  on  board,  and  at  last  he  got  a  fever. 
He  bore  up  against  it  like  a  man,  and  wouldn't  knock  off  duty 
for  a  long  time.  He  was  midshipman  of  my  watch  ;  so  I 
used  to  make  him  turn  in  early,  and  tried  to  ease  things  to 
him  as  much  as  I  could  ;  but  he  didn't  pick  up,  and  I  began 


CAPTAIIT   HARDY   AT   ST.  AMBKOSE.  229 

to  get  very  anxious  about  him.  I  talked  to  the  doctor,  and 
turned  matters  over  in  my  own  mind,  and  at  last  I  came  to 
think  he  wouldn't  get  any  better  i:nless  he  could  sleep  out  of 
the  cockpit.  So,  one  night,  the  20th  of  October  it  was — I 
remember  it  well  enough,  better  than  I  remember  any  day 
since  ;  it  was  a  dirty  night,  blowing  half  a  gale  of  Avind  from 
the  southward,  and  we  were  under  close-reefed  topsails — I  had 
the  first  watch,  and  at  nine  o'clock  I  sent  him  doM'n  to  my 
cabiu  to  sleep  there,  where  he  would  be  fresher  and  quieter, 
and  I  was  to  turn  into  his  hammock  when  my  watch  was 
over. 

I  was  on  deck  three  hours  or  so  after  he  went  down,  and 
the  weather  got  du'tier  and  dirtier,  and  the  scud  drove  by, 
and  the  wind  sang  and  hummed  through  the  rigging — it 
made  me  melancholy  to  listen  to  it.  I  could  think  of  nothing 
but  the  youngster  down  below,  and  what  I  should  say  to  hia 
poor  old  uncle  if  anything  happened.  "Well,  soon  after  mid- 
night I  went  down  and  turned  into  his  hammock.  I  didn't 
go  to  sleep  at  once,  for  I  remember  very  well  listening  to  the 
creaking  of  the  ship's  timbers  as  she  rose  to  the  swell,  and 
watching  the  lamp,  which  was  slung  from  the  ceding,  and 
gave  light  enough  to  make  out  the  other  hammocks  swinging 
slowly  all  together.  At  last,  however,  I  dropped  off,  and  I 
reckon  I  must  have  been  asleep  about  an  hour,  when  I  woke 
with  a  start.  For  the  first  moment  I  didn't  see  anything  but 
the  swinguig  hammocks  and  the  lamp  ;  but  then  suddenly  I 
became  aware  that  some  one  was  standing  by  my  hammock, 
and  I  saw  the  figure  as  plainly  as  I  see  any  one  of  you  now, 
for  the  foot  of  the  hammock  was  close  to  the  lamp,  and  the 
light  struck  full  across  on  the  head  and  shoulders,  which 
was  all  that  I  could  see  of  him.  There  he  was,  the  old 
Commodore ;  his  grizzled  hair  coming  out  from  under  a  red 
woollen  nightcap,  and  his  shoidders  wrapped  in.  an  old  thread- 
bare blue  dressing-gown  which  I  had  often  seen  him  in.  His 
face  looked  pale  and  drawn,  and  there  was  a  wistful  dis- 
appointed look  about  the  eyes.  I  was  so  taken  aback  I  could 
not  speak,  but  lay  watching  him.  He  looked  full  at  my  face 
once  or  twice,  but  didn't  seem  to  recognise  me  ;  and,  just  as 
I  was  getting  back  my  tongue  and  going  to  speak,  he  said 
slowly  :  "Where's  Tom?  this  is  his  hammock.  I  can't  see 
Tom ;"  and  then  he  looked  vaguely  about  and  passed  away 
somehow,  but  how  I  couldn't  see.  In  a  moment  or  two  I 
jumped  out  and  hurried  to  my  cabin,  but  young  Holds  worth  was 
fast  asleep.  I  sat  down,  and  wrote  down  just  what  I  had  seen, 
making  a  note  of  the  exact  time,  twenty  minutes  to  two.  I 
didn't  turn  in  again,  but  sat  wat^^hing  the  youngster.     WTieu 


230  TOM  BKOWN  AT   OXFORD. 

he  woke  I  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  anything  of  his  great 
uncle  by  the  last  mail.  Yes,  he  had  heard ;  the  old  gentle- 
man was  rather  feeble,  but  nothing  particular  the  matter.  I 
kept  my  own  counsel  and  never  told  a  soid  in  the  ship  ;  and, 
when  the  mail  came  to  hand  a  few  days  afterwards  with  a 
letter  from  the  Commodore  to  his  nephew,  dated  late  in 
September,  saying  that  he  was  well,  I  thought  the  figure  by 
my  hammock  must  have  been  all  my  own  fancy. 

However,  by  the  next  mail  came  the  news  of  the  old 
Commodore's  death.  It  had  been  a  very  sudden  break-up, 
his  executor  said.  He  had  left  all  his  property,  which  was 
not  much,  to  his  great  nephew,  who  was  to  get  leave  to  come 
home  as  soon  as  he  could. 

The  first  time  we  touched  at  Malta,  Tom  Holdsworth  left 
us  and  went  home.  We  followed  about  two  years  afterwards, 
and  the  first  thing  I  did  after  landing  was  to  find  out  the 
Commodore's  executor.  He  was  a  quiet,  dry  little  Plymouth 
lawyer,  and  very  civilly  answered  all  my  questions  about  the 
last  days  of  my  old  friend.  At  last  I  asked  him  to  tell  me 
as  near  as  he  could  the  time  of  his  death ;  and  he  put  on  his 
spectacles,  and  got  his  diary,  and  turned  over  the  leaves.  I 
was  quite  nervous  till  he  looked  up  and  said, — "  Twenty-five 
minutes  to  two,  sir,  a.m.,  on  the  morning  of  October  21st ;  or 
it  might  be  a  few  minutes  later." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  sir  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  it  is  an  odd  story.  The  doctor  was 
sitting  with  me,  watching  the  old  man,  and,  as  I  tell  you,  at 
twenty-five  minutes  to  two,  he  got  up  and  said  it  was  all  over. 
We  stood  together,  talking  in  whispers  for,  it  might  be,  four 
or  five  minutes,  when  the  body  seemed  to  move.  He  was  an 
odd  old  man,  you  know,  the  Commodore,  and  we  never  could 
get  him  properly  to  bed,  but  he  lay  in  his  red  nightcap  and 
old  dressing-gown,  with  a  blanket  over  him.  It  was  not  a 
pleasant  sight,  I  can  tell  you,  sir.  I  don't  think  one  of  you 
gentlemen,  who  are  bred  to  face  all  manner  of  dangers,  would 
have  liked  it.  As  I  was  saying,  the  body  first  moved,  and 
then  sat  up,  propping  itself  behind  Avith  its  hands.  The  eyes 
were  wide  open,  and  he  looked  at  us  for  a  moment,  and  said 
slowly,  '  I've  been  to  the  Mediterranean,  but  I  didn't  see 
Tom.'  Then  the  body  sank  back  again,  and  this  time  the  old 
Commodore  was  really  dead.  But  it  was  not  a  pleasant  thing 
to  happen  to  one,  sir.  I  do  not  remember  anything  like  it  in 
my  foity  years'  practice." 


DEPAETUEES   EXPECTED    AND    UNEXrECTED.         231 

CHAPTEK  XXII. 

DEPAETURES    EXPECTED    ANP    UNEXPECTED. 

There  was  a  silence  of  a  few  seconds  after  tlie  Captain  liad 
finished  his  story,  all  the  men  sitting  with  eyes  fixed  on  him, 
and  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  results  of  their  call.  Drysdale 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence,  which  he  did  with  a  "  Ey 
George  !"  and  a  long  respiration  ;  hut,  as  he  did  not  seem 
prepared  with  any  further  remai'k,  Tom  took  up  the  run- 
ning. 

"  What  a  strange  story,"  he  said  ;  "  and  that  reaUy  happened 
to  you.  Captain  Hardy  V' 

"  To  me,  sir,  in  the  Mediterranean,  more  than  forty  years 
ago." 

"  The  strangest  thing  about  it  is  that  the  old  Commodorb 
should  have  managed  to  get  all  the  way  to  the  ship,  and  then 
not  have  known  where  his  nephew  was,"  said  Blake. 

"  He  only  knew  his  nephew's  berth,  you  see,  sir,"  said  the 
Captain. 

"  But  he  might  have  beat  about  through  the  ship  till  he 
had  found  him." 

"  You  must  remember  that  he  was  at  his  last  breath,  sir," 
said  the  Captain  ;  "  you  can't  expect  a  man  to  have  his  head 
clear  at  such  a  moment." 

"  Not  a  man,  perhaps ;  but  I  should  a  ghost,"  said 
Blake. 

"  Time  was  everything  to  him,"  went  on  the  Captain, 
without  regarding  the  interruption,  "  space  nothing.  But  the 
strangest  part  of  it  is  that  7  should  have  seen  the  figure  at 
all.  It's  true  I  had  been  thinking  of  the  old  uncle,  because 
of  the  boy's  illness  ;  but  I  can't  suppose  he  was  thinking  of 
me,  and,  as  I  say,  he  never  recognised  me.  I  have  taken  a 
great  deal  of  interest  in  such  matters  since  that  time,  but  I 
have  never  met  with  just  such  a  case  as  this." 

"No,  that  is  the  puzzle.  One  can  fancy  his  appearing  to 
his  nephew  well  enough,"  said  Tom. 

"  Wo  can't  account  for  these  things,  or  for  a  good  many 
other  things  which  ought  to  be  quite  as  startling,  only  we  see 
them  every  day.  But  now  I  think  it  is  time  for  us  to  be 
going,  eh  Jack?"  and  the  Captain  and  his  son  rose  to  go. 

Tom  saw  that  it  would  be  no  kindness  to  them  to  try  to 
prolong  the  sitting,  and  so  he  got  up  too,  to  accompany  them 
to  the  gates.  This  broke  up  the  party.  Before  going, 
Drysdale,  after  whispering  to  Tom,  went  up  to  Captain  Hardy, 
and  said, — 


232  TOM   BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

"  I  waut  to  ask  you  to  do  me  a  favour,  sir.  Will  you  and 
your  son  breakfast  with  me  to-morrow  1 " 

,"  We  shall  be  very  happy,  sir,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  I  think,  father,  you  had  better  breakfast  with  me,  quietly. 
We  are  much  obhged  to  Mr.  Drysdale,  but  I  can't  give  up  a 
whole  morning.  Besides,  I  have  several  things  to  talk  to  you 
about." 

"  Is^onsense,  Jack,"  blurted  out  the  old  sailor,  "  leave  your 
books  alone  for  one  morning.  I'm  come  up  here  to  enjoy 
myself,  and  see  your  friends." 

Hardy  gave  a  shght  shrug  of  his  shoultlers  at  the  word 
friends,  and  Drysdale,  who  saw  it,  looked  a  little  confused. 
He  had  never  asked  Hardy  to  his  rooms  before.  The  Captain 
Baw  that  something  was  the  matter,  and  hastened  in  his  own 
way  to  make  all  smooth  again. 

"  [Never  mind  Jack,  sir,"  he  said,  "  he  shall  come.  It's  a 
great  treat  to  me  to  be  with  young  men,  especially  when  they 
are  friends  of  my  boy." 

"  I  hope  you'll  come  as  a  personal  favour  to  me,"  said 
Drysdale,  turning  to  Hardy.  "Brown,  you'U  bring  him, 
won't  you  1 " 

"Oh  yes,  I'm  sure  he'll  come,"  said  Tom. 

"That's  aU  right.  Good  night,  then;"  and  Drysdalo 
went  off. 

Hardy  and  Tom  accompanied  the  Captain  to  the  gate. 
During  his  passage  across  the  two  quadrangles,  the  old  gentle- 
man was  full  of  the  praises  of  the  men,  and  of  protestations 
as  to  the  improvement  in  social  manners  and  customs  since 
his  day,  when  there  could  have  been  no  such  meeting,  ho 
declared,  without  blackguardism  and  drunkenness,  at  least 
among  young  officers  ;  but  then  they  had  less  to  think  of 
than  Oxford  men,  no  proper  education.  And  so  the  Captain 
was  evidently  travelling  back  into  the  great  trireme  question 
when  they  reached  the  gate.  As  they  could  go  no  farther 
with  him,  however,  he  had  to  carry  away  his  solution  of  the 
three-banks-of-oars  difficulty  in  his  own  bosom  to  the  Mitre. 

"  Don't  let  us  go  in,"  said  Tom,  as  the  gate  closed  on  the 
Captain,  and  they  turned  back  into  the  quadrangle,  "  let  us 
take  a  turn  or  two  ;"  so  they  walked  up  and  down  the  inner 
quad  in  the  starlight. 

Just  at  first  they  were  a  good  deal  embarrassed  and  con- 
fused ;  but  before  long,  though  not  without  putting  con- 
siderable force  on  himself,  Tom  got  back  into  something  like 
his  old  familiar  way  of  unbosoming  liimself  to  his  re-found 
friend,  and  Hardy  showed  more  than  his  old  anxiety  to  meet 
tiim   half-way.     His  ready  and  undisfruised  sympathy  aooy 


I 


DEPAETUKES    EXPECTED    AJSTD   UNEXPECTED.         233 

dispersed  the  few  remaining  clouds  which  were  stUl  hanging 
between  them  ;  and  Tom  found  it  almost  a  pleasure,  instead 
of  a  di'eary  task,  as  he  had  anticipated,  to  make  a  full  con- 
fession, and  state  the  case  clearly  and  strongly  against  himself 
to  one  who  claimed  neither  by  word  nor  look  the  least 
superiority  over  him,  and  never  seemed  to  remember  that  he 
himself  had  heen  ill-treated  in  the  matter. 

"  He  had  such  a  chance  of  lectui'ing  me  and  didn't  do  it," 
thought  Tom  afterwards,  when  he  was  considering  why  he  felt 
so  very  gi-ateful  to  Hardy.  "  It  was  so  cunning  of  him,  too. 
If  he  had  begun  lecturing,  I  should  haA'e  begun  to  defend 
myself,  and  never  have  felt  half  such  a  scamp  as  I  did  when 
I  was  telling  it  all  out  to  him  in  my  own  way." 

The  result  of  Hardy's  management  was  that  Tom  made 
a  clean  breast  of  it,  telling  everything  down  to  his  night  at 
the  ragged  school ;  and  what  an  effect  his  chance  opening 
of  the  "  Apology  "  had  had  on  him.  Here  for  the  first  time 
Hardy  came  in  with  his  usual  dry,  keen  voice,  "  You  needn't 
have  gone  so  far  back  as  Plato  for  that  lesson." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Tom. 

**  "Well,  there's  something  about  an  indwelling  spirit  which 
guideth  every  man  in  St.  Paul,  isn't  there  1 " 

"  Yes,  a  great  deal,"  Tom  answered,  after  a  pause ;  "  but 
it  isn't  the  same  thing." 

"  Why  not  the  same  thing  ? " 

"  Oh,  surely  you  must  feel  it.  It  would  be  almost  blas- 
phemy in  us  now  to  tallc  as  St.  Paul  talked.  It  is  much 
easier  to  face  the  notion,  or  the  fact,  of  a  d«mon  or  spirit  such 
as  Socrates  felt  to  be  in  him,  than  to  face  what  St.  Paul  seems 
to  be  meaning." 

"Yes,  much  easier.  The  only  question  is  whether  we  wiU 
be  heathens  or  not." 

"  How  do  you  mean  1 "  said  Tom. 

"  Why,  a  spirit  was  speaking  to  Socrates,  and  guiding  him. 
He  obeyed  the  guidance,  but  knew  not  whence  it  came.  A 
spirit  is  striving  with  us  too,  and  trying  to  guide  us — we  feel 
that  just  as  much  as  he  did.  Do  we  iaiow  what  spirit  it  is  1 
whence  it  comes  ?  Will  we  obey  it  1  If  we  can't  name  it — 
know  no  more  of  it  than  he  knew  about  his  daemon,  of 
course,  we  are  in  no  better  position  than  he — in  fact, 
heathens." 

Tom  made  no  answer,  and  after  a  slight  turn  or  two  more. 
Hardy  said,  "  Let  us  go  in  ; "  and  they  went  to  his  rooms. 
AYhen  the  candles  were  lighted,  Tom  saw  the  array  of  books 
on  the  table,  several  of  them  open,  and  remembered  how  near 
the  examinations  were. 


234  TOM   BROWN   AT  OXFORD, 

"  I  see  you  want  to  work,"  he  said.  "  Well,  good-nigiit.  I 
know  how  fellows  like  you  hate  being  thanked — there,  you 
needn't  wince  ;  I'm  not  going  to  try  it  on.  The  best  way  to 
thank  you,  I  know,  is  to  go  straight  for  the  future.  I'll  do 
that,  pleaLe  God,  this  tinie  at  any  rate.  Now  what  ought  I 
to  do,  Hardy  1 " 

"  Well,  it's  very  hard  to  say.  I've  thought  about  it  a  great 
deal  this  last  few  days — since  I  felt  you  were  coming  round — 
but  can't  make  up  my  mind.  How  do  you  feel  yourself] 
What's  your  own  instinct  about  it  1 " 

"  Of  course,  I  must  break  it  all  off  at  once,  completely," 
said  Tom,  mournfully,  and  half  hoping  that  Hardy  might  not 
agree  with  him. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Hardy,   "  but  how  1 " 

"  In  the  way  that  will  pain  her  least.  I  would  sooner  lose 
my  hand  or  bite  my  tongue  oif  than  that  she  should  feel 
lowered,  or  lose  any  self-respect,  you  know,"  said  Tom,  looking 
helplessly  at  his  friend. 

"  Yes,  that's  all  right — you  must  take  all  you  can  on  your 
own  shoulders.  It  must  leave  a  sting  though  for  both  of  you, 
manage  how  you  wilL" 

"  But  I  can't  bear  to  let  her  think  I  don't  care  for  her — 1 
needn't  do  that — I  can't  do  that." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  advise.  However,  I  believe  I  was 
wrong  in  thinking  she  cared  for  you  so  much.  She  will 
be  hurt,  of  course — she  can't  help  bemg  hurt — but  it  won't  be 
so  bad  as  I  used  to  think." 

Tom  made  no  answer  ;  in  spite  of  all  his  good  resolutions, 
he  was  a  Uttle  piqued  at  this  last  speech.  Hardy  went  on 
presently,  "  I  wish  she  were  well  out  of  Oxford.  It's  a  bad 
town  for  a  girl  to  be  living  in,  especially  as  a  barmaid  in 
a  place  which  we  haunt.  1  don't  know  that  she  will  take 
much  harm  now  ;  but  it's  a  very  trying  thing  for  a  girl  oi 
that  sort  to  be  thrown  every  day  amongst  a  dozen  young  men 
above  her  in  rank,  and  not  one  in  ten  of  whom  has  any  man- 
liness about  him." 

"  How  do  you  mean — no  manliness  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  a  girl  in  her  position  isn't  safe  with  us.  H  we 
had  any  manliness  iii  us  she  would  be — " 

"  You  can't  expect  all  men  to  be  blocks  of  ice,  or  milksops," 
said  Tom,  who  was  getting  nettled. 

"  Don't  think  that  I  meant  you,"  said  Hardy ;  "  indeed  I 
didn't.  But  surely,  think  a  moment ;  is  it  a  proof  of  manliness 
that  the  pure  and  the  weak  should  fear  you  and  shrink  from 
you  ]  Wliich  is  the  true — ay,  and  the  brave — man,  he  who 
trembles  before  a  woman  or  he  before  whom  a  woman  trembles  t " 


DEPAKTURES    EXPECTED   AND   UNEXPECTED.         235 

*  l^eitlier,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  I  see  what  you  mean,  and 
T^hen  you  put  it  that  way  it's  clear  enough." 

"  But  you're  wrong  in  saying  '  neither  '  if  you  do  see  what 
T  mean."  Tom  was  silent.  "  Can  there  be  any  true  manliness 
without  purity  \  "  went  on  Hardy.  Tom  drew  a  deep  breath, 
but  said  nothing.  "  And  where  then  can  you  point  to  a  place 
where  there  is  so  little  manliness  as  here  %  It  makes  my 
blood  boil  to  see  what  one  must  see  every  day.  There  are  a 
set  of  men  up  here,  and  have  been  ever  since  I  can  remember 
the  place,  not  one  of  whom  can  look  at  a  modest  woman 
without  making  her  shudder." 

"  There  must  always  be  some  blackguards,"  said  Tom. 

"  Yes  ;  but  unluckily  the  blackguards  set  the  fashion,  and 
give  the  tone  to  public  opinion.  I'm  sure  both  of  us  have 
seen  enough  to  know  perfectly  well  that  up  here,  amongst  us 
undergraduates,  men  who  are  deliberately  and  avowedly  profli- 
gates, are  rather  admired  and  courted, — are  said  to  know  the 
world,  anl  all  that, — while  a  man  who  tries  to  lead  a  pure 
Ufe,  and  makes  no  secret  of  it,  is  openly  sneered  at  by  them, 
looked  down  on  more  or  less  by  the  great  mass  of  men,  and,  to 
use  the  word  you  used  just  now,  thought  a  milksop  by  almost 
aU." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Tom.  "  There 
are  many  men  who  would  respect  him,  though  they  might  not 
be  able  to  follow  him." 

"  Of  course,  I  never  meant  that  there  are  not  many  such, 
but  they  don't  set  the  fashion.  I  am  sure  I'm  right.  Let  us 
try  it  by  the  best  test.  Haven't  you  and  I  in  our  secret  hearts 
this  cursed  feeling,  that  the  sort  of  man  we  are  talking  of 
is  a  milksop  ?" 

After  a  moment's  thought,  Tom  answered,  "  I  am  afraid  I 
have,  but  I  really  am  thoroughly  ashamed  of  it  now.  Hardy. 
But  you  haven't  it.  If  you  had  it  you  could  never  have 
spoken  to  me  as  you  have." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  No  man  is  more  open  than  I  to  the 
bad  influences  of  any  place  he  lives  in.  God  knows  I  am 
even  as  other  men,  and  worse  ;  for  I  have  been  taught  ever 
since  I  could  speak,  that  the  crown  of  all  real  manliness,  of 
all  Christian  manliness,  is  purity." 

!N"either  of  the  two  spoke  for  some  minutes.  Then  Hardy 
looked  at  his  watch — 

"  Past  eleven,"  he  said.  "  I  must  do  some  work.  Well, 
Brown,  this  ■\\dll  be  a  day  to  be  remembered  in  my  calendar." 

Tom  wrung  his  hand,  but  did  not  venture  to  reply.  As  he 
got  to  the  door,  however,  he  turned  back,  and  said — 

**  Do  you  thiok  I  ought  to  write  to  her  ? " 


236  TOM  BROWN  AT   OXFOED. 

"  Well,  you  can  try.    You'll  find  it  a  bitter  business,  I  fear." 

"  I'll  try  then.     Good  night." 

Tom  went  to  his  own  rooms,  and  set  to  work  to  write  his 
letter  ;  and  certainly  found  it  as  difficult  and  unpleasant  a 
task  as  he  had  ever  set  himself  to  work  upon.  Half  a  dozen 
times  he  tore  up  sheet  after  sheet  of  his  attempts  ;  and  got  up 
and  walked  about,  and  plunged  and  kicked  mentally  against 
the  collar  and  traces  in  wliich  he  had  harnessed  himself  by 
his  friend's  help, — trying  to  convince  himself  that  Hardy  was 
a  Puritan,  who  had  lived  quite  differently  from  other  men, 
and  knew  nothing  of  what  a  man  ought  to  do  in  a  case  like 
this.  That  after  all  very  little  harm  had  been  done  !  The 
world  would  never  go  on  at  all  if  people  were  to  be  so  scru- 
pulous !  Probably,  not  another  man  in  the  college,  except 
Grey,  perhaps,  would  think  anything  of  what  he  had  done  ! 
Done  ! — why,  what  had  he  done  1  He  couldn't  be  taking  it 
more  seriously  if  he  had  ruined  her  ! 

At  this  point  he  managed  to  bring  himseK  up  sharp  again 
more  than  once.  "  No  thanks  to  me,  at  any  rate,  that  she 
isn't  ruined.  Had  I  any  pity,  any  scruples  ?  My  God,  what 
a  mean,  selfish  rascal  I  have  been  ! "  and  then  he  sat  down 
again,  and  wrote,  and  scratched  out  what  he  had  written,  till 
the  other  fit  came  on,  and  something  of  the  same  process  had 
to  be  gone  through  again. 

We  must  all  recognise  the  process,  and  remember  many 
occasions  on  which  we  have  had  to  put  bridle  and  bit  on,  and 
ride  ourselves  as  if  we  had  been  horses  or  mules  without 
understanding  ;  and  what  a  trying  business  it  was — as  bad  as 
getting  a  young  colt  past  a  gipsy  encampment  in  a  narrow 
lane. 

At  last,  after  many  trials,  Tom  got  himself  well  in  hand, 
and  produced  something  which  seemed  to  satisfy  him  ;  for, 
after  reading  it  three  or  four  times,  he  put  it  in  a  cover,  with 
a  small  case,  which  he  produced  fi'om  his  desk,  sealed  it, 
directed  it,  and  then  went  to  bed. 

Next  morning,  after  chapel,  he  joined  Hardy,  and  walked 
to  his  rooms  with  him,  and  after  a  few  words  on  indifferent 
matters,  said — 

"  Well,  I  wrote  my  letter  last  night." 

"  Did  you  satisfy  yourself?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  I  don't  know,  though,  on  second 
thoughts  :  it  was  very  tough  work." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  find  it  so." 

"  But  wouldn't  you  like  to  see  iti" 

"No,  thank  you.  I  suppose  my  father  wi]]  bw  here 
directly" 


DEPAETUKES   EXPECTED   AND   UNEXPECTED,  237 

"  But  I  wish  you  would  read  it  through,"  said  Tom,  pro- 
ducing a  copy. 

"  Well,  if  you  wish  it,  I  suppose  I  must ;  hut  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  do  any  good." 

Hardy  took  the  letter,  and  sat  down,  and  Tom  drew  a  chair 
close  to  him,  and  watched  his  face  while  he  read  : — 

"  It  is  hest  for  us  both  that  I  shoidd  not  see  you  any  more, 
at  least  at  present.  I  feel  that  I  have  done  you  a  great  wrong. 
I  dare  not  say  much  to  you,  for  fear  of  making  that  wrong 
greater.  I  cannot,  I  need  not  tell  you  how  I  despise  myself 
now — how  I  long  to  make  you  any  amends  in  my  power.  If 
ever  I  can  he  of  any  service  to  you,  I  do  hope  that  nothing 
which  has  passed  will  hinder  you  from  applying  to  me.  You 
will  not  beheve  how  it  pains  me  to  write  this  ;  how  should 
you  1  I  don't  deserve  that  you  should  beheve  anything  I  say. 
I  must  seem  heartless  to  you  ;  I  have  been,  I  am  heartless. 
I  hardly  know  what  I  am  writing.  I  shaU  long  all  my  life 
to  hear  good  news  of  you.  I  don't  ask  you  to  pardon  me, 
but  if  you  can  prevail  on  yourself  not  to  send  back  the 
enclosed,  and  will  keep  it  as  a  small  remembrance  of  one 
who  is  deeply  sorry  for  the  wrong  he  has  done  you,  but 
who  cannot  and  wiU  not  say  he  is  sorry  that  he  ever  met 
you,  you  will  be  adding  another  to  the  many  kindnesses 
which  I  have  to  thank  you  for,  and  which  I  shall  never 
forget." 

Hardy  read  it  over  several  times,  as  Tom  watched  im- 
patiently, unable  to  make  out  anything  from  his  face. 

"  What  do  you  think  1  You  don't  think  there's  anything 
wrong  in  it,  I  hope  1 " 

"  J^o,  indeed,  my  dear  fellow.  I  really  think  it  does  you 
credit.  I  don't  know  what  else  you  could  have  said  very 
well,  only — " 

"  Only  what  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  you  have  made  it  a  little  shorter  1 " 

"  jN'o,  I  couldn't ;  but  you  don't  mean  that.  What  did  you 
mean  by  that  '  only  '  1 " 

"  Why,  I  don't  thinlc  this  letter  will  end  the  business ;  at 
least,  I'm  afraid  not." 

"  But  what  more  could  I  have  said  ? " 

"  Nothing  more,  certainly  ;  but  coiddn't  you  have  been  a 
little  quieter — it's  difficult  to  get  the  right  word — a  little 
cooler,  perhaps.  Couldn't  you  have  made  the  part  about  not 
seeing  her  again  a  little  more  decided  1 " 

"  But  you  said  I  needn't  pretend  I  didn't  care  for  her." 

"  Did  I  ? " 

"  Yes.     Besides,  it  would  have  been  a  he." 


238  TOM   BEOWN   AT   OXFOKD. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  a  He,  certainly.  But  how  about 
this  'small  remembrance'  that  you  speak  of?  What's 
that  1 ' 

"  Oh,  nothing  ;  only  a  little  locket  I  bought  for  her." 

"  With  some  of  your  hair  in  it  1 " 

"  Well,  of  course.     Come  now,  there's  no  harm  in  that." 

"  No  ;  no  harm.     Do  you  think  she  will  wear  it  1 " 

<'  How  can  1  tell  1 " 

"  It  may  make  her  think  it  isn't  all  at  an  end,  I'm  afraid. 
If  she  always  wears  your  hair — " 

"  By  Jove,  you're  too  bad.  Hardy.  I  wish  you  had  had  to 
write  it  yourself.  It's  all  very  easy  to  pull  my  letter  to  pieces, 
I  dare  say,  but — " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  read  it,  remember." 

"  No  more  you  did.  I  forgot.  But  I  wish  you  would  just 
write  down  now  what  you  woidd  have  said." 

"  Yes,  I  thmk  I  see  myself  at  it.  By  the  way,  of  course 
you  have  sent  your  letter  '? " 

"  Yes,  I  sent  it  off  before  chapel." 

"  I  thought  so.  In  that  case  I  don't  think  we  need  trouble 
ourselves  further  with  the  form  of  the  document." 

"  Oh,  that's  only  shirking.  How  do  you  know  I  may  not 
want  it  for  the  next  occasion  ? " 

"  No,  no  !     Don't  let  us  begin  laughing  about  it.     A  man 
never  ought  to  have  to  wiite  such  letters  twice  in  his  life. 
If  he  has,  why  he  may  get  a  good  enough  precedent  for  the 
second  out  of  the  '  Complete  Letter  Writer.' " 
"  So  you  won't  correct  my  copy  1 " 
"  No,  not  I." 

At  this  point  in  their  dialogue,  Captain  Hardy  appeared 
on  the  scene,  and  the  party  went  off  to  Drysdale's  to  breakfast. 
Captain  Hardy's  visit  to  St.  Ambrose  was  a  great  success. 
He  stayed  some  four  or  five  days,  and  saw  everything  that 
was  to  be  seen,  and  enjoyed  it  all  in  a  sort  of  reverent  way 
which  was  almost  comic.  Tom  devoted  himself  to  the  work 
of  cicerone,  and  did  his  best  to  do  the  work  thoroughly. 
Oxford  was  a  sort  of  Utopia  to  the  Captain,  who  was  reso- 
lutely bent  on  seeuig  nothing  but  beauty  and  learning  and 
wisdom  within  the  precincts  of  the  University.  On  one  or 
two  occasions  his  faith  was  tried  sorely  by  the  sight  of  young 
gentlemen  gracefully  appareUed,  dawdling  along  two  together 
in  low  easy  pony  carriages,  or  lying  on  their  backs  in  punts 
for  hours,  smoking,  with  not  even  a  Bell's  Life  by  them  to 
pass  the  time.  Dawdling  and  doing  nothing  were  the  objects 
of  his  special  abhorrence  ;  but  with  this  trifling  exception  the 
Cnptain  continued  steadily  to  behold  towers  and  quadrangles, 


DEPARTURES   EXPECTED   AND   UNEXPECTED.  23  U 

dud  chapels,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  colleges,  through 
rose-coloured  spectacles.  His  resj^ect  for  a  "regular  educa- 
tion," and  for  the  seat  of  learning  at  which  it  was  dispensed, 
was  so  strong,  that  he  invested  not  only  the  tutors,  doctors, 
and  proctors  (of  whom  he  saw  little  except  at  a  distance),  but 
even  the  most  empty-headed  undergi'aduate  whose  acquaint- 
ance he  made,  with  a  sort  of  fancy  halo  of  scientihc  knowledge, 
and  often  talked  to  those  yoiiths  in  a  way  which  was  curiously 
bewildering  and  embarrassing  to  them.  Drysdale  was  par- 
ticularly hit  by  it.  He  had  humour  and  honesty  enough 
himself  to  appreciate  the  Captain,  but  it  was  a  constant  puzzle 
to  him  to  know  what  to  make  of  it  all. 

"  He's  a  regular  old  brick,  is  the  Captain,"  he  said  to  Tom, 
on  the  last  evening  of  the  old  gentleman's  visit;  "but,  by 
Jove,  I  can't  help  thinking  he  must  be  poking  fun  at  us  half 
his  time.  It  is  rather  too  rich  to  hear  him  talking  on  as  if 
we  were  all  as  fond  of  Greek  as  he  seems  to  be,  and  as  if  no 
man  ever  got  drunk  up  here." 

"  I  declare  I  think  he  believes  it,"  said  Tom.  "  You  see 
we're  all  careful  enough  before  him." 

"  That  son  of  his  too  must  be  a  good  fellow.  Don't  you 
see  he  can  never  have  peached.  His  father  was  telling  me 
last  night  what  a  comfort  it  was  to  him  to  see  that  Jack's 
poverty  had  been  no  drawback  to  him.  He  had  always  told 
him  it  would  be  so  amongst  English  gentlemen,  and  now  he 
found  him  living  quietly  and  independently,  and  yet  on  equal 
terms,  and  friends  with  men  far  above  him  in  rank  and  fortune, 
'  like  you,  sir,'  the  old  boy  said.  By  Jove,  Brown,  I  felt 
devilish  foolish.  I  believe  I  blushed,  and  it  isn't  often  I 
indulge  in  that  sort  of  luxury.  If  I  weren't  ashamed  of 
doing  it  now,  I  should  try  to  make  friends  with  Hardy.  But 
I  don't  know  how  to  face  him,  and  I  doubt  Avhether  he 
wouldn't  think  me  too  much  of  a  rip  to  be  intimate  with." 

Tom  at  his  own  special  request  attended  tlie  Captain's 
departure,  and  took  liis  seat  opposite  to  him  and  his  son  at 
the  back  of  the  Southampton  coach,  to  accompany  him  a  few 
miles  out  of  Oxford.  For  the  first  mile  tlie  Captain  was  full 
of  the  pleasures  of  his  visit,  and  of  invitations  to  Tom  to 
come  and  see  them  in  the  vacation.  If  he  did  not  mind 
homely  quarters  he  would  find  a  hearty  welcome,  and  there 
was  no  finer  bathing  and  boating  place  on  the  coast.  If  he 
liked  to  bring  his  gun,  there  were  plenty  of  blue  rock-pigeons 
and  sea-otters  in  the  caves  at  the  Point.  Tom  protested  with 
the  greatest  sincerity  that  there  was  nothing  he  should  enjoy 
so  much.  Then  the  young  men  got  down  to  Avnlk  up  Bagley 
Hill,  and  when  they  mounted  again  found  the  Captain  with 


240  TOM  BKOWl>r  AT   OXFORD. 

a  large  leather  case  in  his  hand,  out  of  which  he  took  two 
five-pound  notes,  and  began  pressing  them  on  his  son,  while 
Tom  tried  to  look  as  if  he  did  not  know  what  was  going  on. 
For  some  time  Hardy  steadily  refused,  and  the  contention 
became  animated,  and  it  was  useless  to  pretend  any  longer 
not  to  hear. 

"  Why,  Jack,  you're  not  too  j^roud  I  hope,  to  take  a  present 
from  your  own  father,"  the  Captain  said  at  last. 

"  But,  my  dear  father,  I  don't  want  the  money.  You 
make  me  a  very  good  allowance  already." 

"  I^ow,  Jack,  just  listen  to  me  and  be  reasonable.  You  know 
a  great  many  of  your  friends  have  been  very  hospitable  to 
me :  I  could  not  return  their  hospitality  myself,  but  I  wish 
you  to  do  so  for  me." 

"  WeU,  father,  I  can  do  that  without  this  money." 
"  'Now,  Jack,"  said  the  Captain,  pushing  forward  the  notes 
again,  "  I  insist  on  your  taking  them.     You  wUl  pain  me  very 
much  if  you  don't  take  them." 

So  the  son  took  the  notes  at  last,  looking  as  most  men  of 
his  age  would  if  they  had  just  lost  them,  while  the  father's 
face  was  radiant  as  he  replaced  his  pocket-book  in  the  breast- 
pocket inside  his  coat.  His  eye  caught  Tom's  in  the  midst 
of  the  operation,  and  the  latter  could  not  help  looking  a  little 
confused,  as  if  he  had  been  unintentionally  obtruding  on  their 
privacy.  But  the  Captain  at  once  laid  his  hand  on  his  knee 
and  said — 

"  A  young  fellow  is  never  the  "worse  for  having  a  ten-pound 
note  to  veer  and  haid  on  ;  eh,  ]\Ir.  Brown  1 " 

"  1^0,  indeed,  sir.  A  gieat  deal  better  I  think,"  said  Tom, 
and  was  quite  comfortable  again.  The  Captain  had  no  new 
coat  that  summer,  l.iut  ho  always  looked  like  a  gentleman. 

Soon  the  coach  stopped  to  take  up  a  parcel  at  a  cross-road, 
and  the  young  men  got  down.  They  stood  watching  it  until 
it  disappeared  round  a  corner  of  the  road,  and  then  turned 
back  towards  Oxford,  and  struck  into  Bagley  Wood,  Hardy 
listening  Avith  evident  pleasure  to  his  friend's  enthusiastic 
praise  of  his  father.  But  he  was  not  in  a  talking  humour, 
and  they  were  soon  walking  along  together  in  silence. 

This  was  the  first  time  they  had  been  alone  together  since 
the  morning  after  their  reconciliation  ;  so  presently  Tom  seized 
the  occasion  to  recur  to  the  subject  which  was  uppermost  in 
his  thoughts. 

"  She  has  never  answered  my  letter,"  he  began,  abruptly. 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  it,"  said  Hardy. 

"  But  why  1 " 

"  Because  jo'\  know,  you  want  it  all  broken  off  completely.' 


DEPARTURES   EXPECTED    A.ND   UNEXPECTED.         241 

••  Yes,  but  still  she  might  have  just  acknowledged  it.  You 
don't  know  how  hard  it  is  to  me  to  keep  away  from  the 
place." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  know  it  must  be  hard  work,  but  you 
are  doing  the  right  thing." 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so,"  said  Tom,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  haven't  been 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  '  The  Choughs '  this  five  days. 
The  old  lady  must  think  it  so  odd." 

Hardy  made  no  reply.  "What  could  he  say  but  that  no 
doubt  she  did  1 

"  Would  you  mind  doing  me  a  great  favour  ? "  said  Tom, 
after  a  minute. 

"  Anything  I  can  do.— What  is  it  1 " 

"  Why,  just  to  step  round  on  our  way  back, — I  will  stay  as 
far  off  as  you  like, — and  see  how  things  are  going  on  ; — how 
she  is." 

"  Very  well.  Don't  you  like  this  view  of  Oxford  1  I  always 
think  it  is  the  best  of  them  all." 

"  Xo.  You  don't  see  anything  of  half  the  colleges,"  said 
Tom,  who  Avas  very  loth  to  leave  the  other  subject  for  the 
picturesque. 

"But  you  get  all  the  spires  and  towers  so  well,  and  the 
river  in  the  foreground.  Look  at  that  shadow  of  a  cloud 
skimming  over  Christchurch  Meadow.  It's  a  splendid  old 
place  after  all." 

"  It  may  be  from  a  distance,  to  an  outsider,"  said  Tom  ; 
"  but  I  don't  know — it's  an  awfully  chilly,  deadening  kind 
of  place  to  live  in.  There's  something  in  the  life  of  the 
place  that  sits  on  me  like  a  weight,  and  makes  me  feel 
dreary." 

"  How  long  have  you  felt  that  1  You're  coming  out  in  a 
new  line." 

"  I  wish  I  were.  I  want  a  new  line,  I  don't  care  a  straw 
for  cricket ;  I  hardly  like  pulling  ;  and  as  for  those  wine 
parties  day  after  day,  and  suppers  night  after  night,  they  turn 
me  sick  to  tliink  of" 

"  You  have  the  remedy  in  your  own  hands,  at  any  rate," 
said  Hardy,  smiling. 

"How  do  you  mean  1 " 

"  Why,  you  needn't  go  to  them." 

"  Oh,  one  can't  help  going  to  them.  What  else  is  there  to 
do?" 

Tom  waited  for  an  answer,  but  his  companion  only  nodded 
to  show  that  he  was  listening,  as  he  strolled  on  dowTi  the  path, 
looking  at  the  view. 

"  I  can  say  what  I  feel  to  you,  Hardy.   I  always  have  been 


24:)i  TOM  BROWN   AT   OXFORD, 

able,  and  it's  such  a  comfort  to  me  now.  It  was  you  wno  put 
these  sort  of  thoughts  into  my  head  too,  so  you  ought  to  sym- 
pathize with  me." 

"  I  do,  my  deal  fellow.  But  you'll  be  aU  right  again  in  a 
few  days." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it.  It  isn't  only  what  you  seem  to 
think,  Hardy.  You  don't  know  me  so  well  as  I  do  you,  after 
all.  No,  I'm  not  just  love-sick,  and  hipped  because  I  can't 
go  and  see  her.  That  has  something  to  do  with  it,  I  dare 
say,  but  it's  the  sort  of  shu.t-up  selfish  life  we  lead  here  that 
I  can't  stand.  A  man  isn't  meant  to  live  only  with  fellows 
like  himself,  with  good  allowances  paid  quarterly,  and  no  care 
but  how  to  amuse  themselves.  One  is  old  enough  for  some- 
thing better  than  that,  I'm  sure." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Hardy,  with  provoking  taciturnity. 
"  And  the  ruoment  one  tries  to  break  tlirough  it,  one  only 
gets  into  trouble." 

"  Yes,  there's  a  good  deal  of  danger  of  that,  certainly,"  said 
Hardy. 

"  Don't  you  often  long  to  be  in  contact  with  some  of  the 
realities  of  life,  with  men  and  women  who  haven't  their  bread 
and  butter  already  cut  for  them  1  How  can  a  place  be  a 
university  where  no  one  can  come  up  who  hasn't  two  hun- 
dred a  year  or  so  to  live  on  1 " 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  at  Oxford  four  hundred  years 
ago,  when  there  were  more  thousands  here  than  we  have 
hundreds." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  It  must  have  been  ten  times  as  bad 
then." 

"  Not  at  all.  But  it  must  have  been  a  very  different  state  of 
things  from  ours;  they  must  have  been  almost  all  poor  scholars, 
who  worked  for  their  living,  or  lived  on  nest  to  nothing." 
"  How  do  you  really  suppose  they  lived,  though  1 " 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  But  how  should  you  like  it  now,  if 
we  had  fifty  poor  scholars  at  St.  Ambrose,  besides  us  servitors 
— say  ten  tailors,  ten  shoemakers,  and  so  on,  who  came  up 
from  love  of  learning,  and  attended  all  the  lectures  with  us, 
and  worked  for  the  present  undergraduates  wliile  they  were 
hunting,  and  cricketing,  and  boating  1  " 

"  Well,  I  think  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing — at  any  rate, 
we  should  save  in  tailors'  bills." 

"  Even  if  we  didn't  get  our  coats  so  well  built,"  said  Hardy, 
laughing.  "  Well,  Brown,  you  have  a  most  catholic  taste, 
and  '  a  capacity  for  taking  in  new  truths,'  all  the  elements  of 
a  good  Eadical  in  you," 

"  I  tell  you  I  hate  Radicals,"  said  Tom,  indignantly. 


THE   ENGLEBOmiN  CONSTABLE.  248 

"Well,  here  we  are  in  the  town.  I'll  go  round  by  ihe 
Choughs '  and  catch  you  up  before  you  get  to  High  Street." 

Tom,  left  to  himself^  walked  slowly  on  for  a  little  way,  and 
then  quickly  back  again  in  an  impatient,  restless  manner,  and 
was  within  a  few  yards  of  the  corner  where  they  had  parted 
when  Hardy  appeared  again.  He  saw  at  a  glance  that  some- 
thing had  happened. 

"  What  is  it — she  is  not  ill  1 "  he  said,  quickly. 

"No  ;  quite  well,  her  aunt  says." 

"  You  didn't  see  her  then  1 " 

"  No.     The  fact  is  she  has  gone  home." 


CHAPTER  XX  IT  I. 

THE    ENGLEBOURN    CONSTABLE. 

On  the  afternoon  of  a  splendid  day  in  the  early  part  of 
June,  some  four  or  five  days  after  the  Sunday  on  which  the 
morning  service  at  Englebourn  was  interri;pted  by  the  fire  at 
Farmer  Groves',  David  Johnson,  tailor  and  constable  of  Clie 
parish,  was  sitting  at  his  work  in  a  small  erection,  half  shed, 
half  summer-house,  which  leaned  against  the  back  of  his 
cottage.  Not  that  David  had  not  a  regular  workshop  with  a 
window  looking  into  the  village  street,  and  a  regular  counter 
close  under  it,  on  which  passers-by  might  see  him  stitching, 
and  from  which  he  could  gossip  with  them  easily,  as  was  his 
wont.  But  although  the  constable  kept  the  king's  peace  and 
made  garments  of  all  kinds  for  his  livelihood — from  the 
curate's  frock  down  to  the  ploughboy's  fustians — he  was  ad- 
dicted for  his  pleasure  and  solace  to  the  keeping  of  bees. 
The  constable's  bees  inhabited  a  row  of  hives  in  the  narrow 
strip  of  garden  which  ran  away  at  the  back  of  the  cottage. 
This  strip  of  garden  was  bordered  along  the  whole  of  one 
side  by  the  rector's  premises.  Now  honest  David  loved 
gossip  well,  and  considered  it  a  part  of  his  duty  as  con- 
stable to  b3  well  up  in  all  events  and  rumours  which  hap- 
pened or  arose  within  his  liberties.  But  he  loved  his  bees 
better  than  gossip,  and,  as  he  was  now  in  hourly  expectation 
that  they  would  be  swarming,  was  working,  as  has  been 
said,  in  his  summer-house,  that  he  might  be  at  hand  at  the 
critical  moment.  The  rough  table  on  which  he  was  seated 
commanded  a  view  of  the  hives ;  his  big  scissors  and  som.e 
shreds  of  velveteen  lay  near  him  on  the  table,  also  the  street- 
door  key  and  an  old  shovel,  of  which  the  uses  wdl  apxeai 
presently. 

B.2 


244  TOM  BEOWN   AT   OXFOED. 

On  his  knees  lay  the  black  velveteen  coat,  the  Sunday 
garment  of  Harry  Winburn,  lo  which  he  was  fitting  new 
sleeves.  In  his  exertions  at  the  top  of  the  chimney  iv 
putting  out  the  fire  Harry  had  grievously  damaged  the  gar- 
ment in  question.  The  farmer  had  presented  him  with  five 
shillings  on  the  occasion,  which  sum  was  quite  inadequate  to 
the  purchase  of  a  new  coat,  and  Harry,  being  too  proud  to 
call  the  farmer's  attention  to  the  special  damage  which  ho  had 
suiTered  in  his  service,  had  contented  himself  with  bringing 
his  old  coat  to  be  new  sleeved. 

Harry  was  a  favourite  with  the  constable  on  account  of  his 
intelligence  and  independence,  and  because  of  his  relations 
with  the  farmers  of  Euglebourn  on  the  allotment  question. 
Although  by  his  office  the  representative  of  law  and  order  in 
the  parish,  David  was  a  man  of  the  people,  and  sympathized 
with  the  peasantry  more  than  with  the  farmers.  He  had 
passed  some  jesxs  of  Ms  apprenticeship  at  Reading,  Avhere 
he  had  picked  up  notions  on  political  and  social  questions 
much  ahead  of  the  Englebourn  worthies.  When  he  returned 
to  his  native  village,  being  a  wise  man,  he  had  kept  his  new 
lights  in  the  background,  and  consequently  had  succeeded  in 
the  object  of  his  ambition,  and  had  been  appointed  constable. 
His  reason  for  seeking  the  post  was  a  desire  to  prove  that  the 
old  joke  as  to  the  manliness  of  tailors  had  no  application  to 
his  case,  and  this  he  had  established  to  the  satisfaction  of  aU 
the  neighbourhood  by  the  resolute  manner  in  which,  when- 
ever called  on,  he  performed  his  duties.  And,  now  that  his 
character  was  made  and  his  position  secure,  he  was  not  so 
careful  of  betraying  his  leanings,  and  had  lost  some  custom 
amongst  the  farmers  in  consequence  of  them. 

The  job  on  which  he  was  employed  naturally  turned  his 
thoughts  to  Harry.  He  stitched  away,  now  weighing  in  his 
mind  whether  he  should  not  go  himself  to  Farmer  Groves,  and 
represent  to  him  that  he  ought  to  give  Harry  a  new  coat  ; 
now  rejoicing  over  the  fact  that  the  rector  had  decided  to  let 
Harry  have  anotlier  acre  of  the  allotment  land ;  now  specu- 
lating on  the  attachment  of  his  favourite  to  the  gardener's 
daughter,  and  whether  he  could  do  anything  to  forward  his 
suit.  In  the  pnrsuit  of  which  thoughts  he  had  forgotten  all 
about  his  bees,  when  suddenly  a  great  humming  arose,  fol- 
lowed by  a  rush  through  the  air  like  the  passing  of  an  express 
train,  which  recalled  him  to  himself.  He  jumped  from  the 
table,  casting  aside  the  coat,  and,  seizing  the  key  and  shovel^ 
hurried  out  into  tne  garden,  beating  the  two  together  with  ali 
his  might. 

The  process  in  question,  known  in  country  phrase  as  "  tang 


THE   ENGLEBOUEN   CONSTABLE.  24l 

ing,"  is  founded  upon  the  belief  that  the  hees  will  not  settle 
unless  under  the  influence  of  this  peculiar  music  ;  and  the 
constable,  holding  faithfully  to  the  popular  belief,  rushed 
down  his  garden,  "  tanging  "  as  though  his  life  depended  upon 
it,  in  the  hopes  that  the  soothing  sound  would  induce  the 
swarm  to  settle  at  once  on  his  own  anple  trees. 

Is  "  tanging  "  a  superstition  or  not  ?  People  learned  in 
bees  ought  to  know,  but  I  never  happened  to  meet  one  who 
had  settled  the  question.  It  is  curious  how  such  beliefs  or 
superstitions  fix  themselves  in  the  popular  mind  of  a  country 
side,  and  are  held  by  wise  and  simple  alike.  David  the  con- 
stable was  a  most  sensible  and  open-minded  man  of  liis  time 
and  class,  but  Kemble  or  Akerman,  or  other  learned  Anglo- 
Saxon  scholar  would  have  vainly  explained  to  him  that 
*'  tang,"  is  but  the  old  word  for  "  to  hold,"  and  tnat  the  object 
of  "  tanging"  is,  not  to  lure  the  bees  with  sweet  music  of  key 
and  shovel,  but  to  give  notice  to  the  neighbours  that  they 
have  swarmed,  and  that  the  owner  of  the  maternal  hive  means 
to  hold  on  to  his  right  to  the  emigrants.  David  would  have 
listened  to  the  lecture  with  pity,  and  have  retained  unshaken 
belief  in  his  music. 

In  the  present  case,  however,  the  tangmg  was  of  little 
avail,  for  the  swarm,  after  wheeling  once  or  twice  in  the  air, 
disappeared  from  the  eyes  of  the  constable  over  the  rector's 
wall.  He  went  on  "  tanging  "  violently  for  a  minute  or  two, 
and  then  paused  to  consider  what  was  to  be  done.  Should 
he  get  over  the  wall  into  the  rector's  garden  at  once,  or  should 
he  go  round  and  ask  leave  to  carry  his  search  into  the  j^ar- 
sonage  grounds  ?  As  a  man  and  bee-fancier  he  was  en  the 
point  of  following  straight  at  once,  over  Avail  and  fence  ;  but 
the  constable  was  also  strong  within  him.  He  was  not  on 
the  best  of  terms  witii  old  Simon,  the  rector's  gardener,  and 
his  late  opposition  to  Miss  Winter  in  the  matter  of  the  sing- 
ing also  came  into  his  mmd.  So  he  resolved  that  the  parish 
constable  would  lose  caste  by  disregarding  his  neighbour's 
boundaries,  and  was  considering  what  to  do  next,  when  he 
heard  a  footstep  and  short  cough  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall 
which  he  recognised. 

"Be  you  there,  Maester  Simon  1 "  he  called  out.  "Whore 
upon  the  walker  on  the  other  side  pulled  up,  and  after  a 
second  appeal  answered  shortly — 

"  E'es." 

"  Hev'ee  seed  aught  o'  my  bees  1  Thaoy've  a  bin'  ani  riz, 
and  gone  off  somweres  athert  the  wall." 

'*  E'es,  I  seen  'em." 

"  Wer'  be  'em  then  'I  " 


246  TOM  BROWH   AT   OXFORD. 

*'  Aal-amang  wi'  ourn  in  the  limes." 

"  Aal-amang  wi'  yourn,"  exclaimed  the  constable.  "  Drattle 
'em.     Thaay  be  mwore  trouble  than  they  be  wuth," 

"  I  knowed  as  thaay  wur  yourn  zoon  as  ever  I  sot  eyes  on 
'em,"  old  Simon  went  on. 

"  How  did'ee  know  'em  then  1 "  asked  the  constable. 

"  'Cause  thine  be  aal  zettin'  crass-legged,"  said  Simon,  with 
a  chuckle.  "  Thee  medst  cum  and  pick  'em  all  out  if  thee'st 
a  mind  to  't." 

Simon  was  mollified  by  his  own  joke,  and  broke  into  a 
short,  dry  cachination,  half  laugh,  half  cough ;  while  the 
constable,  who  was  pleased  and  astonished  to  find  his  neigh- 
bour in  such  a  good  humour,  hastened  to  get  an  empty  hive 
and  a  pair  of  hedger's  gloves — fortified  with  which  he  left 
his  cottage  and  made  the  best  of  his  way  up  street  towards 
the  Rectory  gate,  hard  by  which  stood  Simon's  cottage.  The 
old  gardener  was  of  an  impatient  nature,  and  the  effect  of 
the  joke  had  almost  time  to  evaporate,  and  Simon  was  fast 
relapsing  into  his  usual  state  of  mind  towards  his  neighbour 
before  the  latter  made  his  appearance. 

"  Wher'  hast  been  so  long  1 "  he  exclaimed,  when  the  con- 
stable joined  him. 

"  I  seed  the  young  missus  and  t'other  young  lady  a  standin' 
talkin'  afore  the  door,"  said  David  ;  "  so  I  stopped  back,  so 
as  not  to  disturve  'em." 

"  Be  'em  gone  in  1     Who  was  'em  talkin'  to  ? " 

"To  thy  missus,  and  thy  daaiter  too,  I  b'lieve  'twas. 
Thaay  be  both  at  whoani,  bean't  'em  1 " 

"  Like  enough.     But  what  was  'em  zayin'  1  " 

"I  couldn't  heer  nothin'  partic'lar,  but  I  judged  as  'twas 
summat  about  Sunday  and  the  fire." 

"  'Tis  na  use  for  thaay  to  go  on  fillin'  our  pleace  wi'  bottles. 
I  dwon't  mean  to  take  no  mwore  doctor's  stuff." 

Simon,  it  may  be  said,  by  the  way,  had  obstinately  refused 
to  take  any  medicine  since  his  fall,  and  had  maintained  a 
constant  war  on  the  subject,  both  with  his  own  women  and 
with  Miss  Winter,  whom  he  had  impressed  more  than  ever 
with  a  belief  in  his  wrongheadedness. 

"  Ah  !  and  how  be'ee,  tho',  Maester  Simon  1  "  said  David  ; 
"  I  didn't  mind  to  ax  afore.  You  dwon't  feel  no  wus  for 
your  fall,  I  hopes  ?  " 

"  I  feels  a  bit  stiffish  like,  and  as  if  summat  wur  cuttin'  m' 
at  times,  when  I  lifts  up  my  arms." 

"'Tis  a  mercy  'tis  no  wus,"  said  David;  "we  bean't  so 
young  nor  lissom  as  we  was,  Maester  Simon." 

To  which  remark  Simon  replied  by  a  grunt,     lie  disliked 


THE   ENGLEBOUEN   CONSTABLE.  247 

allusions  to  his  age — a  rare  dislike  amongst  his  class  in  that 
part  of  the  country.  Most  of  the  people  are  fond  of  making 
themselves  out  older  tlian  they  are,  and  love  to  dwell  on  their 
experiences,  and  believe,  as  firmly  as  the  rest  of  us,  that 
everything  has  altered  for  tlie  worse  in  the  parish  and  district 
since  their  youth. 

But  Simon,  though  short  of  words  and  temper,  and  an 
uncomfortable  acquaintance  in  conseqiience,  was  inclined  to 
be  helpful  enough  in  other  ways.  The  constable,  Avith  his 
assistance,  had  very  soon  hived  his  swarm  of  cross-legged 
bees. 

Then  the  constable  insisted  on  Simon's  coming  with  him 
and  taking  a  glass  of  ale,  which,  after  a  little  coquetting, 
Simon  consented  to  do.  So,  after  carrying  his  re-capture 
safely  home,  and  erecting  the  hive  on  a  three-legged  stand  of 
his  own  workmanship,  he  hastened  to  rejoin  Simon,  and  the 
two  soon  found  themselves  in  the  bar  of  the  "  Red  Lion." 

The  constable  wished  to  make  the  most  of  this  opportunity, 
and  so  began  at  once  to  pump  Simon  as  to  his  intentions 
with  regard  to  his  daughter.  But  Simon  was  not  easy  to 
lead  in  any  way  whatever,  and  seemed  in  a  more  than  usually 
no-biisiness-of-yours  line  about  his  daughter.  Whether  he 
had  any  one  in  his  eye  for  her  or  not,  David  could  not  make 
out ;  but  one  thing  he  did  make  out,  and  it  grieved  him 
much.  Old  Simon  was  in  a  touchy  and  unfriendly  state  of 
mind  against  Harry,  who,  he  said,  was  falling  into  bad  ways, 
and  begmning  to  think  much  too  much  of  his  self.  Why  was 
he  to  be  wanting  more  allotment  gromid  than  any  one  else  1 
Simon  had  himself  given  Harry  some  advice  on  the  point, 
but  not  to  much  purpose,  it  would  seem,  as  he  summed  up 
his  notions  on  the  subject  by  the  remark  that,  "  'Twas  waste 
of  soap  to  lather  an  ass." 

The  constable  now  and  then  made  a  stand  for  his  young 
friend,  but  very  judiciously  ;  and,  after  feeling  his  way  for 
some  time,  he  came  to  the  conclusion — as,  indeed,  the  truth 
was — that  Simon  was  jealous  of  Harry's  talent  for  growing 
flowers,  and  had  been  di'iven  into  his  present  frame  of  mind 
at  hearing  ]\Iiss  Winter  and  her  cousin  talking  about  the 
flowers  at  Dame  Winburn's  under  his  very  nose  for  the  last 
four  or  five  days.  They  had  spoken  thus  to  interest  the  old 
man,  meaning  to  praise  Harry  to  him.  The  fact  was,  that 
the  old  gardener  was  one  of  those  men  Avho  never  can  stand 
hearing  other  people  praised,  and  think  that  all  such  praise 
must  be  meant  in  depreciation  of  themselves. 

When  they  had  finished  their  ale,  the  afternoon  was  getting 
on,  and  the  constable  rose  to  go  back  to  his  work  ;  while  old 


248  TOM  BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

Simon  declared  his  intention  of  going  down  to  the  hay-field, 
to  see  how  the  mowing  was  getting  on.  He  was  sure  that 
the  hay  would  never  be  made  properly,  now  that  he  couldn't 
be  about  as  much  as  usual. 

In  another  hour  the  coat  was  finished,  and  the  constable, 
being  uneasy  in  his  mind,  resolved  to  carry  the  garment 
home  himself  at  once,  and  to  have  a  talk  with  Dame  Winburn. 
So  he  wrapped  the  coat  in  a  handkerchief,  put  it  under  his 
arm,  and  set  off  down  the  village. 

He  found  the  dame  busy  with  her  washing ;  and  after 
depositing  his  parcel  sat  down  on  the  settle  to  have  a  talk  with 
her.  They  soon  got  on  the  subject  wliich  was  always  upper- 
most in  her  mind,  her  son's  prospects,  and  she  poured  out 
to  the  constable  her  troubles.  First  there  was  this  sweet- 
hearting  after  old  Simon's  daughter, — not  that  Dame  Win- 
burn  was  going  to  say  anything  against  her,  though  she 
might  have  her  thoughts  as  well  as  other  folk,  and  for  her 
part  she  liked  to  see  girls  that  were  fit  for  something  besides 
dressing  themselves  up  like  their  betters, — but  what  worrited 
her  was  to  see  how  Harry  took  it  to  heart.  He  wasn't  Tike 
himself,  and  she  couldn't  see  how  it  was  all  to  end.  It  made 
him  fractious  too,  and  he  was  getting  into  trouble  about  his 
work.  He  had  left  his  regular  place,  and  was  gone  mowing 
with  a  gang,  most  of  them  men  out  of  the  parish  that  she 
knew  nothing  about,  and  likely  not  to  be  the  best  of  company. 
And  it  was  all  very  well  in  harvest  time,  when  they  could  go 
and  earn  good  wages  at  mowing  and  reaping  anywhere  about, 
and  no  man  could  earn  better  than  her  Harry,  but  when  it  came 
to  winter  again  she  didn't  see  but  what  he  might  find  the 
want  of  a  regular  place,  and  then  the  farmers  mightn't  take 
him  onj  and  his  own  land  that  he  had  got,  and  seemed  to 
think  so  much  of,  mightn't  turn  out  all  he  thought  it  would. 
And  so  in  fact  the  old  lady  was  troubled  in  her  mind,  and 
only  made  the  constable  more  uneasy.  He  had  a  vague  sort 
of  impression  that  he  was  in  some  way  answerable  for  Harry, 
who  was  a  good  deal  with  him,  and  was  fond  of  coming  about 
his  place.  And  although  his  cottage  happened  to  be  next  to 
old  Simon's,  which  might  account  for  the  fact  to  some  extent, 
yet  the  constable  was  conscious  of  having  tallced  to  his  young 
friend  on  many  matters  in  a  way  which  might  have  unsettled 
him,  and  encouraged  his  natural  tendency  to  stand  up  for  his 
own  rights  and  independence,  and  he  knew  weU  enough  that 
this  temper  was  not  the  one  which  was  likely  to  keep  a 
labouring  man  out  of  trouble  in  the  parish. 

He  did  not  allow  his  own  misgivings,  however,  to  add  to 
the  widow's  troubles,  but,  on  the  contrary,  cheered  her  by 


tllE  ENGLEBOURN  CONSTABLE.  249 

praising  up  Harry  as  much  as  even  she  could  desire,  and 
prophesying  tliat  all  M'ould  come  right,  and  that  those  that 
lived  would  see  her  son  as  respected  as  any  man  in  the  parish ; 
he  shouldn't  be  surprised,  indeed,  if  he  were  churchwarden 
before  he  died.  And  then,  astonished  at  his  own  boldness, 
and  feeling  that  he  was  not  capable  of  any  higLer  flight  of 
imagination,  the  constable  rose  to  take  his  leave.  He  asked 
where  Harry  was  working,  and,  finding  that  he  was  at  mowing 
in  the  Danes'  Close,  set  off  to  look  after  him.  The  kind- 
hearted  constable  could  not  shake  off  the  feeling  that  some- 
thing was  going  to  happen  to  Harry  which  would  get  him 
into  trouble,  and  he  wanted  to  assure  himself  that  as  yet 
nothing  had  gone  wrong.  Whenever  one  has  this  sort  of 
vague  feeling  about  a  friend,  there  is  a  natural  and  irresistible 
impulse  to  go  and  look  after  him,  and  to  be  with  him. 

The  Danes'  Close  was  a  part  of  the  glebe,  a  large  field  of 
some  ten  acres  or  so  in  extent,  close  to  the  village.  Two 
footpaths  ran  across  it,  so  that  it  was  almost  common  pro- 
perty, and  the  village  children  considered  it  as  much  their 
playground  as  the  green  itseK.  They  trampled  the  grass  a 
good  deal  more  than  seemed  endurable  in  the  eyes  of  Simon, 
who  managed  the  rector's  farming  operations  as  well  as  tfie 
garden  ;  but  the  children  had  their  own  way,  notwithstanding 
the  threats  he  sometimes  launched  at  them.  Miss  Winter 
would  have  sooner  lost  all  the  hay  than  have  narrowed  their 
amusements.  It  was  the  most  difficult  piece  of  mo'wing  in 
the  parish,  in  consequence  of  the  tramplings  and  of  the  large 
crops  it  bore.  The  Danes,  or  some  other  unknown  persons, 
had  made  the  land  fat,  perhaps  with  their  carcases,  and  the 
benefit  had  lasted  to  the  time  of  our  story.  At  any  rate,  the 
field  bore  splendid  crops,  and  the  mowers  always  got  an 
extra  shilling  an  acre  for  cutting  it,  by  Miss  Winter's  special 
order,  which  was  paid  by  Simon  in  the  most  ungracious 
manner,  and  with  many  grumblings  that  it  was  enough  to 
ruin  all  the  mowers  in  the  countryside. 

As  the  constable  got  over  the  stile  into  the  hay-field,  a 
great  part  of  his  misgivings  passed  out  of  his  head.  He  was 
a  simple  kindly  man,  whose  heart  lay  open  to  all  influences 
of  scene  and  weather,  and  the  Danes'  Close,  full  of  life  and 
joy  and  merry  sounds,  as  seen  under  the  slanting  rays  of  the 
evening  sun,  was  just  the  place  to  rub  all  the  wrinkles  out 
of  liim. 

The  constable,  however,  is  not  singular  in  this  matter. 

What  man  amongst  us  all,  if  he  will  think  the  matter  over 
calmly  and  fairly,  can  honestly  say  that  there  is  any  one  spot 
on  the  earth's  surface  in  which  he  has  enjoyed  so  much  real. 


250  TOM  BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

wholesome,  happy  life  as  in  a  hay -field  ?  He  may  have  won 
renown  on  horseback  or  on  foot  at  the  sports  and  pastimes  in 
which  Englishmen  glory  ;  he  may  have  shaken  off  all  rivals, 
time  after  time,  across  the  vales  of  Aylesbury,  or  of  Berks,  or 
any  other  of  our  famous  hunting  counties  ;  he  may  have 
stalked  the  oldest  and  shyest  buck  in  Scotch  forests,  and 
killed  the  biggest  salmon  of  the  year  in  the  Tweed,  and  trout 
in  the  Thames  ;  he  may  have  made  topping  averages  in  first- 
rate  matches  of  cricket ;  or  have  made  long  and  perilous 
marches,  dear  to  memory,  over  boggy  moor,  or  mountain,  or 
glacier  ;  he  may  have  successfully  attended  many  breakfast- 
parties  within  drive  of  Mayfair,  on  velvet  lawns,  surrounded 
by  all  the  fairy-land  of  pomp,  and  beauty,  and  luxury,  which 
London  can  pour  out ;  he  may  have  shone  at  private  theatricals 
and  at-homes ;  his  voice  may  have  sounded  over  hushed  audi- 
ences at  St.  Stephen's,  or  in  the  law  courts  ;  or  he  may  have 
had  good  times  in  any  other  scenes  of  pleasure  or  triumph 
open  to  Englishmen ;  but  I  much  doubt  whether,  on  putting 
his  recollections  fairly  and  quietly  together,  he  would  not  say 
at  last  that  the  fresh-mown  hay-field  is  the  place  where  he 
has  spent  the  most  hours  which  he  would  like  to  live  over 
again,  the  fewest  which  he  would  wish  to  forget. 

As  children,  we  stumble  about  the  new-mown  hay,  revelling 
in  the  many  colours  of  the  prostrate  grass  and  Mild  flowers, 
and  in  the  power  of  tumbling  where  we  please  without  hurt- 
ing ourselves  :  as  small  boys,  we  pelt  one  another  and  the 
village  school-girls  and  our  nursemaids  and  young  lady  cousins 
with  the  hay,  till,  hot  and  weavy,  we  retire  to  tea  or  syllabub 
beneath  the  shade  of  some  great  oak  or  elm  standing  up  like 
a  monarch  out  of  the  fair  pasture ;  or,  following  the  mowers, 
we  rush  with  eagerness  on  the  treasures  disclosed  by  the 
scythe-stroke, — the  nest  of  the  unhappy  late-laying  titlark, 
or  careless  field-mouse  :  as  big  boys,  we  toil  ambitiously  with 
the  sjjare  forks  and  rakes,  or  climb  into  the  wagons  and  receive 
with  o^Den  arms  the  delicious  load  as  it  is  pitched  up  from 
below,  and  rises  higher  and  higher  as  we  pass  along  the  long 
lines  of  haycocks  :  a  year  or  two  later  we  are  strolling  there 
with  our  first  sweethearts,  our  souls  and  tongues  loaded  with 
sweet  thoughts  and  soft  speeches  ;  we  take  a  turn  with  the 
scythe  as  the  bronzed  mowers  lie  in  the  shade  for  their  short 
rest,  and  willingly  pay  our  footmg  for  the  feat.  Again,  we 
come  back  with  book  in  pocket,  and  our  own  childi'en  tumbling 
about  as  we  did  before  them;  now  romping  with  them,  and 
smothering  them  with  the  sweet-smelling  load — now  musing 
and  reading  and  dozing  away  the  deUcious  summer  evenings. 
And  so  shall  we  not  come  back  to  the  end,  enjoying  as  grand- 


THE   ENGLEBOURN   CONSTABLE.  251 

fathers  the  lovemakiBg  and  the  rompmgs  of  younger  genera 
tions  yet  1 

Were  any  of  us  ever  really  disappointed  or  melancholy  in 
a  hay-field  ?  Did  we  ever  lie  fairly  back  on  a  haycock  and 
look  up  into  the  blue  sky,  and  listen  to  the  merry  sounds, 
the  whetting  of  scythes  and  the  laughing  prattle  of  women 
and  children,  and  think  evil  thoughts  of  the  world  or  our 
brethren  1  Not  we  !  or  if  we  have  so  done,  we  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  ourselves,  and  deserve  never  to  be  out  of  town 
again  during  hay-harvest. 

There  is  something  in  the  sights  and  sounds  of  a  hay-field 
which  seems  to  touch  the  same  chord  in  one  as  Lowell's  lines 
in  the  "Lay  of  Sir  Launfal,"  which  end — 

"  For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  Ave  pay  ; 

We  ■tt'ear  out  our  lives  with  toUing  and  tasking  ; 
It  is  only  Heaven  that  is  given  away ; 

It  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking. 
There  is  no  price  set  on  the  lavish  summer, 

And  June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer." 

But  the  philosophy  of  the  hay-field  remains  to  be  written. 
Let  us  hope  that  whoever  takes  the  subject  in  hand  Avill  not 
dissipate  all  its  sweetness  in  the  process  of  the  inquiry  wherein 
the  charm  lies. 

The  constable  had  not  the  slightest  notion  of  speculating 
on  his  own  sensations,  but  was  very  glad,  nevertheless,  to  find 
his  spirits  rising  as  he  stepped  into  the  Danes'  Close.  All 
the  hay  was  down,  except  a  small  piece  in  the  further  corner, 
which  the  mowers  were  upon.  There  were  groups  of  children 
in  many  parts  of  the  field,  and  women  to  look  after  them, 
mostly  sitting  on  the  fresh  swarth,  working  and  gossiping. 
Avhile  the  little  ones  played  about.  He  had  not  gone  twenty 
yards  before  he  was  stopped  by  the  violent  crying  of  a  child ; 
and,  turning  towards  the  voice,  he  saw  a  little  girl  of  six  ox 
seven,  who  had  strayed  from  her  mother,  scrambhng  out  o> 
the  ditch,  and  wringing  her  hands  in  an  agony  of  pain  and 
terror.  The  poor  little  thing  had  fallen  into  a  bed  of  nettles, 
and  was  very  much  frightened,  and  not  a  little  hurt.  The 
constable  caught  her  up  in  his  arms,  soothing  her  as  well  as 
he  could,  and  hurrying  along  till  he  found  some  dock-leaves, 
sat  down  with  her  on  his  knee,  and  rubbed  her  hands  with 
the  leaves,  repeatmg  the  old  saw — 

"  Out  nettle, 
In  dock  : 
Dock  shall  ha' 
A  new  smock ; 
Nettle  shan't 
Ha'  uaiTUu'." 


252  TOM   BROWN   AT  OXFOKB 

Wliat  with  the  rubbing,  and  the  constable's  kind  manner, 
and  listening  to  the  doggrel  rhyme,  and  feeling  that  nettle 
would  get  her  deserts,  the  little  thing  soon  ceased  crying. 
But  several  groups  had  been  drawn  towards  the  place,  and 
amongst  the  rest  came  Miss  Winter  and  her  cousin,  who  had 
been  within  hearing  of  the  disaster.  The  constable  began  to 
feel  v^ery  nervous  and  uncomfortable,  when  he  looked  up  from 
his  charitable  occupation,  and  suddenly  found  the  rector's 
daughter  close  to  him.  But  his  nervousness  was  uncalled  for. 
Che  sight  of  what  he  was  about,  and  of  the  tender  Avay  in 
which  he  was  handling  the  child,  drove  all  remembrance  of 
his  heresies  and  contumaciousness  in  the  matter  of  psalmody 
out  of  her  head.  She  greeted  him  with  frankness  and  cor- 
diality, and  presently — when  he  had  given  up  his  charge  to 
the  mother,  who  was  inclined  at  first  to  be  hard  with  the  poor 
little  sobbing  truant — came  up,  and  said  she  wished  to  speak 
a  few  Avords  to  him. 

David  was  highly  delighted  at  Miss  Wmter's  manner ;  but 
he  walked  along  by  her  side  not  quite  comfortable  in  his 
mind,  for  fear  lest  she  should  start  the  old  subject  of  dispute, 
and  then  his  duty  as  a  public  man  would  have  to  be  done  at 
all  risk  of  offending  her.  He  was  much  comforted  when  she 
began  by  asking  him  whether  he  had  seen  much  of  Widow 
Winburn's  son  lately. 

David  admitted  that  he  generally  saw  him  every  day. 

Did  he  know  that  he  had  left  his  place,  and  had  quarrelled 
with  Mr.  Tester  ? 

Yes,  David  knew  that  Harry  had  had  words  with  Farmer 
Tester ;  but  Farmer  Tester  was  a  sort  that  it  was  very  hard 
not  to  have  words  with. 

. "  Still,  it  is  very  bad,  you  know,  for  so  young  a  man  to  be 
quarrelling  with  the  farmers,"  said  Miss  Winter. 

"  'Twas  the  varmer  as  quarrelled  wi'  he,  you  see,  miss," 
David  answered,  "  which  makes  all  the  odds.  He  cum  to 
Harry  all  in  a  fluster,  and  said  as  how  he  must  drow  \ip  the 
land  as  he'd  a'got,  or  he's  place — one  or  t'other  on  'em.  And 
so  you  see,  miss,  as  Harry  wur  kmd  o'  druv  to  it.  'Twarn't 
likely  as  he  wur  to  drow  up  the  land  now  as  he  wur  just  rep- 
pin'  the  benefit  ov  it,  and  all  for  Varmer  Tester's  place,  wich 
be  no  sich  gurt  things,  miss,  arter  all." 

"  Very  Hkely  not ;  but  I  fear  it  may  hinder  his  getting 
employment.  The  other  farmers  will  not  take  htm  on  now  if 
they  can  help  it." 

"  No  ;  tbaay  falls  out  wi'  one  another  bad  enough,  and 
calls  all  manner  o'  names.  But  thaay  can't  abide  a  poor  man 
to  speak  ]m  ximvl,  nor  take  his  own  part,  not  one  on  'em," 


THE  ENGLEBOUITN'  CONSTABLE.         253 

said  David,  looking  at  Miss  Winter,  as  if  doiibtful  how  she 
might  take  his  strictures  ;  but  sJie  went  on  without  any  show 
of  dissent, — 

"  I  sliall  try  to  get  him  work  for  my  father  ,  hut  I  am  sorry 
to  find  that  Simon  does  not  seem  to  like  the  idea  of  takuig 
him  on.  It  is  not  easy  always  to  make  out  Simon's  mean- 
ing. When  I  spoke  to  him,  he  said  something  about  a 
bleating  sheep  losing  a  bite  ;  but  I  should  think  this  young 
man  is  not  much  of  a  talker  in  general  1  " she  paused. 

"  That's  true,  miss,"  said  David,  energetically  ;  "  there 
ain't  a  quieter  spoken  or  steadier  man  at  his  work  in  the 
parish." 

"  I'm  yery  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  Miss  Winter, 
"  and  I  hope  we  may  soon  do  something  for  him.  But  what 
I  want  you  to  do  just  now  is  to  speak  a  word  to  him  about 
the  company  he  seems  to  be  getting  into." 

The  constable  looked  somewhat  aghast  at  this  speech  of 
Miss  Winter's,  but  did  not  answer,  not  Imowing  to  what  she 
was  alluding.  She  saw  that  he  did  not  understand,  and  went 
on — 

"  He  is  mowing  to-day  with  a  gang  from  the  heath  and 
the  next  parish  ;  I  am  sure  they  are  very  bad  men  for  him  to 
be  with.  I  was  so  vexed  when  I  found  Simon  had  given 
them  the  job  ;  but  he  said  they  would  get  it  all  down 
in  a  day,  and  be  done  with  it,  and  that  was  aU  he  cared 
for." 

"  And  'tis  a  fine  day's  work,  miss,  for  five  men,"  said 
David,  looking  over  the  field  ;  "  and  'tis  good  work  too,  you 
mind  the  swarth  else,"  and  he  picked  up  a  handful  of  the 
fallen  grass  to  show  her  how  near  the  ground  it  Avas  cut. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  no  doubt  they  are  very  good  mowers, 
but  they  are  not  good  men,  I'm  sure.  There,  do  you  see  now 
who  it  is  that  is  bringing  them  beer  1  I  hope  you  will  see 
Widow  Winburn's  son,  and  speak  to  him,  and  try  to  keep 
him  out  of  bad  company.  We  should  be  all  so  sorry  if  he 
were  to  get  into  trouble." 

David  promised  to  do  his  best,  and  Miss  Winter  wished 
him  good  evening,  and  rejoined  her  cousin. 

"  Well,  Katie,  will  he  do  your  behest  t  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  and  I  think  he  is  the  best  person  to  do  it. 
Widow  Wrnburn  thmks  her  son  minds  him  more  than  any 
one." 

"  Do  you  know,  I  don't  tliink  it  will  ever  go  right.  I'm 
sure  she  doesn't  care  the  least  for  him." 

"  Oh,  you  have  only  just  seen  her  once  for  two  or  three 
minutes." 


254  TOM  BROAVN  AT  OXFORD. 

"And  then  that  wretched  old  Simon  is  so  perverse,  about 
it,"  said  the  cousin.     "  You  will  never  manage  him." 

"He  is  very  provoking,  certainly  ;  but  I  get  my  own  way 
generally,  in  spite  of  him.  And  it  is  such  a  perfect  plan, 
isn't  it  ? " 

"  Oil.  charming  !  if  you  can  only  bring  it  about." 

"  Now  we  must  be  really  going  home,  papa  will  be  getting 
restless."  So  the  young  ladies  left  the  hay-field  deep  in  castle- 
building  for  Harry  Winburn  and  the  gardener's  daughter. 
Miss  Winter  being  no  more  able  to  resist  a  tale  of  true  love 
than  her  cousin,  or  the  rest  of  her  sex.  They  would  have 
been  more  or  less  than  women  if  they  had  not  taken  an 
interest  in  so  absorbing  a  passion  as  poor  Harry's.  By  the 
time  they  reached  the  Rectory  gate  they  had  installed  him  in 
the  gardener's  cottage  with  his  bride  and  mother  (for  there 
would  be  plenty  of  room  for  the  widow,  and  it  would  be  so 
convenient  to  have  the  laundry  close  at  hand),  and  had  })en- 
sioned  old  Simon,  and  sent  him  and  his  old  wife  to  wrangle 
away  the  rest  of  their  time  in  the  widow's  cottage.  Castle- 
building  is  a  delightful  and  harmless  exercise. 

Meantime  David  the  constable  had  gone  towards  the 
mowers,  who  were  taking  a  short  rest  before  finishing  off  the 
last  half-acre  which  remained  standing.  The  person  whose 
appearance  had  so  horrified  ISIiss  "Winter  was  drawing  beer 
for  them  from  a  small  barrel.  This  was  an  elderly  raw-boned 
woman  with  a  skin  burnt  as  brown  as  that  of  any  of  the 
mowers.  She  wore  a  man's  hat  and  spencer,  and  had  a  strong 
harsh  voice,  and  altogether  was  not  a  prepossessing  person. 
She  went  by  the  name  of  Daddy  Cowell  in  the  parish,  and 
had  been  for  years  a  proscribed  person.  She  lived  up  on  the 
heath,  often  worked  in  the  fields,  took  in  lodgers,  and  smoked 
a  short  clay  pipe.  These  eccentricities,  when  added  to  her 
half-male  clothing,  Avere  quite  enough  to  account  for  the  sort 
of  outlawry  in  which  she  lived.  Miss  Winter,  and  other  good 
people  of  Englebourn,  believed  her  capable  of  any  crime,  and 
the  children  were  taught  to  stop  talking  and  playing,  and 
run  away  when  she  came  near  them  ;  but  the  constable,  who 
had  had  one  or  two  search-warrants  to  execute  in  her  house, 
and  had  otherAvise  had  frequent  occasions  of  getting  acquainted 
with  her  in  the  course  of  his  duties,  had  by  no  means  so 
evil  an  opinion  of  her.  He  had  never  seen  much  harm 
in  her,  he  had  often  been  heard  to  say,  and  she  never  made 
pretence  to  much  good.  Nevertheless,  David  was  by  no 
means  pleased  to  see  her  acting  as  purveyor  to  the  gang 
which  Harry  had  joined.  He  knew  how  such  contact 
would  damage  him  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  parochial  respect 


THE   SCHOOLS.-  255 

abilities,  and  was  anxious  to  do  his  best  to  get  him  clear 
of  it. 

With  these  views  he  went  up  to  the  men,  who  were  resting 
under  a  large  elm  tree,  and  complimented  them  on  their  day^s 
work.  They  were  themselves  well  satisfied  with  it,  and  with 
one  another.  When  men  have  had  sixteen  hours'  or  so  hard 
mowing  in  company,  and  none  of  them  can  say  that  the  others 
have  not  done  their  fair  share,  they  are  apt  to  respect  one 
another  more  at  the  end  of  it.  It  was  Harry's  first  day  with 
this  gang,  who  were  famous  for  going  about  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  doing  great  feats  in  hay  and  wheat  harvest.  They 
were  satisfied  with  him  and  he  with  them,  none  the  less  so 
probably  in  his  present  frame  of  mind,  because  they  also  were 
loose  on  the  world,  servants  of  no  regular  master.  It  was  a 
bad  time  to  make  his  approaches,  the  constable  saw  ;  so,  after 
sitting  by  Harry,  until  the  gang  rose  to  finish  off  their  work 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  and  asking  him  to  come  round  by 
his  cottage  on  his  way  home,  which  Harry  promised  to  do,  ho 
walked  back  to  the  village. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE    SCHOOLS. 

There  is  no  more  characteristic  spot  in  Oxford  than  the 
quadrangle  of  the  schools.  Doubtless  in  the  times  when  the 
University  held  and  exercised  the  pri\nleges  of  infang-tliief 
and  outfang-thief,  and  other  such  old-world  rights,  there  must 
have  been  a  place  somewhere  within  the  liberties  devoted  to 
examinations  even  more  exciting  than  the  great-go.  But 
since  alma  mater  has  ceased  to  take  cognizance  of  "  treasons, 
insurrections,  felonies,  and  mayhem,"  it  is  here,  in  that  fateful 
and  inexorable  quadi'angle,  and  the  buildings  which  surround 
it,  that  she  exercises  her  most  potent  spells  over  the  spirits 
of  her  children.  I  suppose  that  a  man  being  tried  for  his 
life  must  be  more  uncomfortable  than  an  undergraduate  being 
examined  fijr  his  degree,  and  that  to  be  hung — perhaps  even 
to  be  pUloried — must  be  worse  than  to  be  plucked.  But 
after  all,  the  feelings  in  both  cases  must  be  essentially  the 
saiae,  only  more  intense  in  the  former ;  and  an  institution 
wliich  can  examine  a  man  (in  literis  humanioribus,  in  hu- 
manities so  called)  once  a  year  for  two  or  three  days  at  a  time, 
has  nothing  to  complain  of,  though  it  has  no  longer  the  power 
of  hanging  him  at  once  out  of  hand. 

The  schools'  quadrangle  is  for  the  most  part  a  lonely  place. 
Men  pass  through  the  melancholy  iion-gates  by  which  that 


256  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

.■:[uadraiigle  is  entered  on  three  sides — from  Broad-street,  froiL 
the  Eatcliife,  and  from  New  College-lane — when  necessity 
leads  them  that  way,  with  alert  step  and  silently.  No  nurse- 
maids or  children  play  ahout  it.  Nohody  lives  in  it.  Only 
when  the  examinations  are  going  on  you  may  see  a  few 
hooded  figures  who  walk  as  though  conscious  of  the  powers 
of  academic  life  and  death  which  they  wield,  and  a  good  deal 
of  shuddering  undergraduate  life  flitting  about  the  place — 
luckless  youths,  in  white  ties  and  bands,  who  are  undergoing 
the  peine  forte  et  dure  with  different  degrees  of  composure ; 
and  their  friends  who  are  there  to  look  after  them.  You 
may  go  in  and  watch  the  torture  yourself  if  you  are  so  minded, 
for  the  viva,  voce  schools  are  open  to  the  public.  But  one  such 
experiment  Avill  be  enough  for  you,  unless  you  are  very  hard- 
hearted. The  sight  of  the  long  table,  behind  which  sit  Minos, 
Ehadamanthus  and  Co.  full- robed,  stern  of  face,  soft  of  speech, 
seizing  their  victim  in  turn,  now  letting  him  run  a  little  way 
as  a  cat  does  a  mouse,  then  drawing  liim  back,  with  claw  of 
wily  question,  probing  him  on  this  side  and  that,  turning  him 
inside  out— the  row  of  victims  opposite,  pale  or  flushed,  of 
anxious  or  careless  mien,  according  to  temperament,  but  one 
and  all  on  the  rack  as  they  bend  over  the  allotted  paper,  or 
read  from  the  well-thumbed  book — the  scarcely-less-to-be- 
pitied  row  behind  of  future  victims,  "sitting  for  the  schools  " 
as  it  is  called,  ruthlessly  brought  hither  by  statutes,  to  watch 
the  sufferings  they  must  hereafter  undergo — should  fill  the 
friend  of  suffering  humanity  with  thoughts  too  deep  for  tears. 
Through  the  long  day  till  four  o'clock,  or  later,  the  torture 
lasts.  Then  the  last  victim  is  dismissed ;  the  men  who  are 
"  sitting  for  the  schools"  fly  all  ways  to  their  colleges,  silently, 
in  search  of  relief  to  their  over-wrought  feelings — probably  also 
of  beer,  the  undergraduate's  universal  specific.  The  beadles 
close  those  ruthless  doors  for  a  mysterious  half-hour  on  the 
examiners.  Outside  in  the  quadrangle  collect  by  twos  and 
threes  the  friends  of  the  victims,  waiting  for  the  re-opening 
of  the  door,  and  the  distribution  of  the  "  testamurs."  The 
testamurs,  lady  readers  will  be  pleased  to  understand,  are 
certificates  under  the  hands  of  the  examiners  that  your  sons, 
brothers,  husbands,  perhaps,  have  siiccessfully  undergone  the 
torture.  But,  if  husbands,  oh,  go  not  yourselves,  and  send 
not  your  sons  to  wait  for  the  testamur  of  the  head  of  your 
house ;  for  Oxford  has  seldom  seen  a  sight  over  which  she 
would  more  willingly  draw  the  veil  with  averted  face  than 
that  of  the  youth  rushing  wildly,  dissolved  in  tears,  from  the 
schools'  quadrangle,  and  shouting  "  Mamma !  papa's  plucked  J 
papa's  plucked ! " 


THE   SCHOOLS.  25? 

The  examination  is  nearly  over  which  is  to  decide  the 
academical  fate  of  some  of  our  characters  ;  the  paper-work  of 
the  candidates  for  honours  has  been  going  on  for  tlie  last 
week.  Every  morning  our  three  St.  Ambrose  acquaintances 
have  mustered  with  the  rest  for  the  anxious  day's  work,  after 
such  breakfasts  as  they  have  been  able  to  eat  under  the 
circumstances.  They  take  their  work  in  very  different  ways. 
Grey  rushes  nervously  back  to  his  rooms  whenever  he  is  out 
nf  the  schools  for  ten  minutes,  to  look  up  dates  and  dodges. 
He  worries  himself  sadly  over  every  blunder  which  he  dis- 
covers himself  to  have  made,  and  sits  up  nearly  all  night 
cramming,  always  hoping  for  a  better  to-morrow.  Blake 
keeps  up  his  affected  carelessness  to  the  last,  quizzing  the 
examiners,  laughing  over  the  shots  he  has  been  making  ia 
the  last  paper.  His  shots,  it  must  be  said,  turn  out  well  for 
the  most  part ;  in  the  taste  paper  particularly,  as  they  com- 
pare notes,  he  seems  to  have  almost  struck  the  bull's-eye  in 
his  answers  to  one  or  two  questions  which  Hardy  and  Grey 
have  passed  over  altogether.  When  he  is  wide  of  the  mark 
he  passes  it  off  with  some  jesting  remark  "  that  a  fool  can  ask 
in  five  minutes  more  questions  than  a  wise  man  can  answer 
in  a  week,"  or  wish  "that  the  examiners  would  play  fair, 
and  change  sides  of  the  table  for  an  hour  with  the  candidates, 
for  a  finish."  But  he,  too,  though  he  does  it  on  the  sly,  is 
cramming  with  his  coach  at  every  available  spare  moment. 
Hardy  had  finished  his  reading  a  full  thirty-six  hours  before 
the  first  day  of  paper-work,  and  had  braced  himself  for  the 
actual  struggle  by  two  good  nights'  rest  and  a  long  day  on 
the  river  with  Tom.  He  had  worked  hard  from  the  first, 
and  so  had  really  mastered  his  books.  And  now,  feeling 
that  he  has  fairly  and  honestly  done  his  best,  and  that  if  he 
fails  it  will  be  either  from  bad  luck  or  natm-al  incapacity,  and 
not  from  his  own  fault,  he  manages  to  keep  a  cooler  head 
than  any  of  his  companions  in  trouble. 

The  week's  paper-work  passes  of  uneventfully :  then  comes 
the  viva  voce  work  for  the  candidates  for  honours.  They  go 
■n,  in  alphabetical  order,  four  a  day,  for  one  more  daj^'s  work, 
the  hardest  of  all,  and  then  there  is  nothing  more  to  do  but 
wait  patiently  for  the  class  list.  Oii  these  days  there  is  a 
good  attendance  in  the  enclosed  space  to  which  the  public 
are  admitted.  The  front  seats  are  often  occupied  by  the 
private  tutors  of  the  candidates,  who  are  there,  like  New- 
market trainers,  to  see  the  performance  of  their  stables, 
marking  how  each  colt  bears  pressing,  and  comports  himself 
when  the  pinch  comes.  They  watch  the  examiners,  too, 
carefully,  to  see  what  line  they  take,  whether  science,  or 

8 


258  TOM    BEO\VN    4.T   OXFOED. 

history,  or  scholarship  is  likely  to  tell  most,  that  they  may 
handle  the  rest  of  their  starters  accordingly.  Behind  them, 
for  tlie  most  part,  on  the  hiiidermost  benches  of  the  flight  ol 
raised  steps,  anxious  younger  brothers  and  friends  sit,  for  a 
feAv  minutes  at  a  time,  flitting  in  and  out  in  much  unrest,  and 
making  the  olijects  of  their  solicitude  more  nervous  than  ever 
by  their  sympathy. 

It  is  now  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  of  the  viva  voce 
examinations  in  honours.  Blake  is  one  of  the  men  in.  His 
tutor.  Hardy,  Grey,  Tom,  and  other  St.  Ambrose  men,  have 
all  been  in  the  schools  more  or  less  during  his  examination, 
and  now  Hardy  and  Tom  are  waiting  outside  the  doors  for  the 
issuing  of  the  testamurs. 

The  group  is  small  enoiigh.  It  is  so  much  of  course  that  a 
class-man  should  get  his  testamur  that  there  is  no  excite- 
ment about  it ;  generally  the  man  himself  stops  to  receive  it. 

The  only  anxious  faces  in  the  group  are  Tom's  and  Hardy's. 
They  have  not  exchanged  a  word  for  the  last  few  minutes  in 
their  short  walk  before  the  door.  Now  the  examiners  come 
out  and  walk  away  towards  their  colleges,  and  the  next  minute 
the  door  again  opens  and  the  clerk  of  the  schools  appears  with 
the  slips  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

"  Now  you'll  see  if  I  am  not  right,"  said  Hardy,  as  they 
gathered  to  the  door  with  the  rest.  "  I  teD  you  there  isn't 
the  least  chance  for  him." 

The  clerk  read  out  the  names  inscribed  on  the  testamurs 
which  he  held,  and  handed  them  to  the  owners. 

"  Haven't  you  one  for  Mr.  Blake  of  St.  Ambrose  1 "  said 
Tom,  desperately,  as  the  clerk  was  closing  the  door. 

"  No,  sir ;  none  but  those  I  have  just  given  out,"  answered 
the  clerk,  shaking  his  head.  The  door  closed,  and  they 
turned  away  in  silence  for  the  first  minute. 

"  I  told  you  hoAv  it  would  be,"  said  Hardy,  as  they  passed 
out  of  the  south  gate  into  the  Ratclifl'e  Quadrangle, 

"  But  he  seemed  to  be  doing  so  well  when  I  was  in." 

"  Yoii  were  not  there  at  the  time.  I  thought  at  first  they 
would  have  sent  him  out  of  the  schools  at  once." 

"  In  his  divinity,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  he  was  asked  to  repeat  one  of  the  Articles,  and 
didn't  know  three  words  of  it.  From  that  moment  I  saw  it 
was  all  over.  The  examiner  and  he  both  lost  their  tempers, 
and  it  went  from  bad  to  worse,  till  the  examiner  remai'ked 
that  he  could  have  answered  one  of  the  questions  he  was 
asking  when  he  Avas  ten  years  old,  and  Blake  replied.  So 
could  he.  They  gave  him  a  paper  in  divinity  afterAvards,  but 
you  could  see  there  was  no  chance  for  him." 


"  Viva  voce."    In  the  ^'Schools." 


P.  258. 


i 


TTTE    SCHOOLS.  259 

"  t'uor  fellow  !  what  will  he  do,  do  you  thinlc  ?  How  ^viIl 
he  take  it  1 " 

"  I  can't  tell.  But  I'm  afraid  it  will  be  a  very  sei-ious 
matter  for  him.  He  was  the  ablest  man  in  our  year  too. 
What  a  pity  !  " 

They  got  into  St.  Ambrose  just  as  the  bell  for  afternoon 
chapel  was  going  down,  and  went  in.  Blake  was  tliere,  and 
one  look  showed  him  what  had  happened.  In  fact  he  had 
expected  nothing  else  all  day  since  his  breakdo^^Ti  in  the 
Articles.  Tom  coxddn't  help  watching  him  daring  chapel ; 
and  afterwards,  on  that  evening,  acknowledged  to  a  friend 
that  whatever  else  you  might  think  of  Blake,  there  was  no 
doubt  about  his  gameness. 

After  chapel  he  loitered  outside  the  door  in  the  quadrangle, 
talking  just  as  usual,  and  before  hall  he  loitered  on  the  steps 
in  well-feigned  carelessness.  Everybody  else  was  thinking  of 
his  breakdo\^^l ;  some  with  real  sorrow  and  sympathy  ;  others 
as  of  any  other  nine-days'  wonder — pretty  much  as  if  the 
favourite  for  the  Derby  had  broken  down  ;  othere  with  ill- 
concealed  triumph,  for  Blake  had  many  enemies  amongst  the 
men.  Ho  himself  was  conscious  enough  of  what  they  were 
thinking,  but  maintained  his  easy,  gay  manner  through  it 
all,  though  the  etlbrt  it  cost  him  was  tremendous.  The  only 
allusion  he  made  to  wliat  bad  happened  which  Tom  heard  was 
when  he  asked  him  to  wine. 

"  Are  you  engaged  to-night,  Brown  ? "  he  said.  Tom 
answered  in  the  negative.  "  Come  to  me,  then,"  he  went 
on.  "  You  won't  get  another  chance  in  St.  Ambrose.  I  have 
a  few  bottles  of  old  wine  left ;  we  may  as  well  floor  them : 
they  won't  bear  moving  to  a  hall  mth  their  master." 

And  then  he  turned  to  some  other  men  and  asked  them, 
every  one  in  fact  whom  he  came  across,  especially  the  dominant 
fast  set  with  whom  he  had  chiefly  lived.  These  young  gentle- 
men (of  whom  we  had  a  glimpse  at  the  outset,  but  whose 
company  we  have  carefully  avoided  ever  since,  seeing  that 
their  sayings  and  doings  were  of  a  kind  of  which  the  less  said 
the  better)  had  been  steadily  going  on  in  their  way,  getting 
more  and  more  idle,  recldess,  and  insolent.  Their  doings  had 
been  already  so  scandalous  on  several  occasions  as  to  call  for 
solemn  meetings  of  the  college  authorities  ;  but,  no  \ngorous 
measures  having  followed,  such  deliberations  had  only  made 
matters  worse,  and  given  the  men  a  notion  that  they  could 
do  what  they  pleased  with  impunity.  This  night  the  climax 
had  come  ;  it  was  as  though  the  flood  of  misrule  had  at  last 
broken  banks  and  overflowed  the  whole  college. 

For  two  hours  the  wine  party  in  Blake's  large  ground-floi3r 

82 


2C0  TOM   BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

rooms  was  kept  up  with  a  wild  reckless  mirth,  in  keeping 
with  the  host's  temper.  Elake  was  on  his  mettle.  He  had 
asked  every  man  with  whom  he  had  a  speaking  acquaintance, 
as  if  he  wished  to  lace  out  his  disaster  at  once  to  the  whole 
world.  Many  of  the  men  came  feeling  uncomfortable,  and 
would  sooner  have  stayed  away  and  treated  the  phick  as  a 
real  misfortune.  Eut  after  all  Blake  was  the  best  judge  of 
how  he  liked  it  to  be  treated,  and,  if  he  had  a  fancy  for 
giving  a  great  wine  on  the  occasion,  the  civilest  thing  to  do 
was  to  go  to  it.  And  so  they  went,  and  wondered  as  much 
as  he  could  desire  at  the  brilliant  coolness  of  their  host, 
specidating  and  doubting  nevertheless  in  their  own  secret 
hearts  whether  it  wasn't  acting  after  all.  Acting  it  was,  no 
doubt,  and  not  worth  the  doing ;  no  acting  is.  But  one 
must  make  allowances.  No  two  men  take  a  thing  just  alike, 
and  very  few  can  sit  down  quietly  when  they  have  lost  a  fall 
in  life's  Avrostle,  and  say,  "  "Well,  here  I  am,  beaten  no  doubt 
this  time.  By  mj^  own  fault  too.  Now,  take  a  good  look  at 
me,  my  good  friends,  as  I  know  you  all  want  to  do,  and  say 
your  say  out,  for  I  mean  getting  up  again  directly  and  having 
another  turn  at  it." 

Blake  drank  freely  himself,  and  urged  his  guests  to  drink, 
which  was  a  superlluous  courtesy  for  the  most  part.  Many 
of  the  men  left  his  rooms  considerably  excited.  They  had 
dispersed  for  an  hour  or  so  to  billiards,  or  a  stroll  in  the 
town,  and  at  ten  o'clock  reassembled  at  supper  parties,  of 
which  there  were  several  in  college  this  evening,  especially  a 
monster  one  at  Chanter's  rooms — a  "  chamj>agne  supper,"  as 
he  had  carefully  and  ostentatiously  announced  on  the  cards  of 
invitation. 

This  flaunting  the  champagne  in  their  faces  had  been 
resented  by  Drysdale  and  others,  who  drank  his  champagne 
in  tumblers,  and  then  abused  it  and  clamoured  for  beer  in 
the  middle  of  the  supper.  Chanter,  Avhose  prodigality  in 
some  ways  was  only  exceeded  by  his  general  meanness,  had 
lost  his  temper  at  this  demand,  and  insisted  that,  if  they 
wanted  beer,  they  might  send  for  it  themselves,  for  he 
wouldi_'t  pay  for  it.  This  protest  was  treated  with  up- 
roarious contempt,  and  gallons  of  ale  soon  made  their  ap- 
pearance in  college  jugs  and  tankards.  The  tables  were 
cleared,  and  songs  (most  of  them  of  more  than  doubtful 
character),  cigars,  and  all  sorts  of  compounded  drinks,  from 
claret  cup  to  egg  flip,  succeeded.  The  company,  recruited 
constantly  as  men  came  into  college,  was  getting  more  and 
more  excited  every  minute.  The  scouts  cleared  away  and 
carried  off  all  relics  of  tl'  e  supper,  and  then  left ;  still  the 


THE  SCHOOLS.  261 

revel  weut  on,  till,  by  midnight,  the  men  were  ripe  fur  any 
mischief  or  folly  which  those  among  them  who  retained  any 
brains  at  all  could  suggest.  Tlib  signal  for  breaking  up  was 
gi^  en  by  the  host's  falling  from  his  scat.  Some  of  the  men 
rose  with  a  shout  to  put  him  to  bed,  which  they  accom- 
plished with  difficulty,  after  dropping  him  several  times,  and 
left  him  to  snore  off  the  effects  of  his  debauch  with  one  of 
his  boots  on.  Others  took  to  doing  what  mischief  occurred 
to  them  in  his  rooms.  One  man,  mounted  on  a  chair  with  a 
cigar  in  his  mouth  which  had  gone  out,  was  employed  in 
pouring  the  contents  of  a  champagne  bottle  with  unsteady 
hand  into  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece.  Chanter  was  a 
particular  man  in  this  sort  of  furniture,  and  his  clock  was 
rather  a  speciaHty.  It  was  a  large  bronze  figure  of  Atlas, 
supporting  the  globe  in  the  shape  of  a  time-piece.  Un- 
luckily, the  maker,  not  anticipating  the  sort  of  test  to  which 
his  work  would  be  subjected,  had  ingeniously  left  the  hole 
for  winding  up  in  the  top  of  the  clock,  so  that  unusual 
facilities  existed  for  dro\^^ling  the  w^orld-carrier,  and  he  was 
already  almost  at  his  last  tick.  One  or  two  men  were 
morally  aiding  and  abetting,  and  physically  supporting  the 
experimenter  on  clocks,  who  found  it  difficult  to  stand  to  his 
work  by  himself.  Another  knot  of  young  gentlemen  stuck 
to  the  tables,  and  so  continued  to  shout  out  scraps  of  song, 
sometimes  standing  on  their  chairs,  and  sometimes  tumbling 
off  them.  Another  set  were  employed  on  the  amiable  work 
of  pouring  beer  and  sugar  into  three  new  pairs  of  polished 
leather  dress  boots,  with  coloured  tops  to  them,  which  they 
discovered  in  the  dressing-room.  Certainly,  as  they  remarked, 
Chanter  could  have  no  possible  use  for  so  many  dress  boots 
at  once,  and  it  was  a  pity  the  beer  should  be  wasted  ;  but  on 
the  whole,  peihaps,  the  materials  Avere  never  meant  for  com- 
bination, and  had  better  have  been  kept  apart.  Others  had 
gone  away  to  break  into  the  kitchen,  headed  by  one  who 
had  just  come  into  college  and  vowed  he  would  have  some 
supper ;  and  others,  to  screw  up  an  unpopular  tutor,  or  to 
break  into  the  rooms  of  some  inoffensive  freshman.  The 
remainder  mustered  on  the  grass  in  the  quadrangle,  and 
began  playing  leap-frog  and  larking  one  another.  Amongst 
these  last  Avas  our  hero,  who  had  been  at  Blake's  wine  and 
one  of  the  quieter  supper  parties ;  and,  though  not  so  far 
gone  as  most  of  his  companions,  was  by  no  means  in  a  state 
in  which  ho  would  have  cared  to  meet  the  Dean.  He  lent 
his  hearty  aid  accordingly  to  swell  the  noise  and  tumult, 
which  was  becoming  something  out  of  the  way  even  for 
St.    Ambrose's.      As   the   leap-frog   was    flagging,    Drysdale 


262  TOM  BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

suddenly  appeared  carrying  some  silver  plates  which  were 
used  on  solemn  occasions  in  the  common  room,  and  allowed 
to  be  issued  on  special  application  for  gentlemen- commoners' 
parties.     A  rush  was  made  towards  him. 

"  Halloa,  here's  Drysdale  with  lots  of  swag,"  shouted  one, 
"  AVliat  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ? "  cried  another.  Drys- 
dale paused  a  moment  with  the  peculiarly  sapient  look  of  a 
tipsy  man  who  has  suddenly  lost  the  thread  of  his  ideas,  and 
then  suddenly  broke  out  -with — 

"  Hang  it  !   I  forget.     But  let's  play  at  quoits  with  them." 

The  proposal  was  received  with  applause,  and  the  game 
began,  but  Drysdale  soon  left  it.  He  had  evidently  some 
notion  in  his  head  which  would  not  suffer  him  to  turn  to 
anything  else  tUl  he  had  carried  it  out.  He  went  off  accord- 
ingly to  Chanter's  rooms,  while  the  quoits  went  on  in  the 
fi'ont  quadrangle. 

About  this  time,  however,  the  Dean  and  bursar,  and  the 
tutors  who  lived  in  college,  began  to  be  conscious  that  some- 
thing unusual  was  going  on.  They  were  quite  used  to  distant 
choruses,  and  great  noises  in  the  men's  rooms,  and  to  a  fair 
amount  of  shouting  and  skylarking  in  the  quadrangle,  and 
were  long-suffering  men,  not  given  to  interfering ;  but  there 
must  be  an  end  to  all  endurance,  and  the  state  of  things 
which  had  arrived  could  no  longer  be  met  by  a  turn  in  bed 
and  a  growl  at  the  uproars  and  follies  of  undergraduates. 

Presently  some  of  the  rioters  on  the  grass  caught  sight  of 
a  figure  gliding  along  the  side  of  the  quadrangle  towards  the 
Dean's  staircase.  A  shout  arose  that  the  enemy  was  up,  but 
little  heed  was  paid  to  it  by  the  greater  number.  Then 
another  figure  passed  from  the  Dean's  staircase  to  the  porter's 
lodge.  Those  of  the  men  who  had  any  sense  left  saw  that 
it  was  time  to  quit,  and,  after  warning  the  rest,  went  off 
towards  their  rooms.  Tom  on  his  way  to  his  staircase  caught 
sight  of  a  figure  seated  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  inner  quad- 
rangle, and  made  for  it,  impelled  by  natural  curiosity.  He 
found  Drysdale  seated  on  the  ground  with  several  silver 
tankards  by  his  side,  employed  to  the  best  of  his  powers 
in  digging  a  hole  with  one  of  the  college  carving-knives. 

"  Halloa,  Drysdale !  Avhat  are  you  up  to  1 "  he  shouted, 
laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Providing  for  poshterity,"  replied  Drysdale,  gravely, 
without  looking  up. 

*'  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  ?  Don't  be  such  an  ass. 
The  Dean  will  be  out  in  a  miimte.     Get  up  and  come  along." 

"  I  tell  you,  old  fellow,"  said  Drysdale,  somewhat  inar- 
ticulately, and  driving  his  knife  into  the  ground  again,  "  the 


THE  SCHOOLS.  263 

dons  are  going  to  spout  the  college  plate.  So  I  am  burjdng 
these  articles  for  ijoshterity — "  » 

"  Hang  posterity,"  said  Tom ;  "  come  along  directly,  or 
you'll  be  caught  and  rusticated." 

"  Go  to  bed,  Brown — you're  drunk,  Brown,"  replied  Drys- 
dale,  continuing  his  work,  and  striking  the  carving-knife 
into  the  ground  so  close  to  his  own  thigh  that  it  made  Tom 
shudder. 

"  Here  they  are  then,"  he  cried  the  next  moment,  seizing 
Drysdale  by  the  arm,  as  a  rush  of  men  came  through  the 
passage  into  the  back  quadrangle,  shouting  and  tumbling 
along,  and  making  in  small  groups  for  the  different  stair- 
cases. The  Dean  and  two  of  the  tutors  follow^ed,  and  the 
porter  bearing  a  lantern.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost ;  so 
Tom,  after  one  more  struggle  to  pull  Drysdale  up  and  hiu^ry 
him  off,  gave  it  up,  and  leaving  him  to  his  fate,  ran  across  to 
his  own  staircase. 

For  the  next  half-hour  the  Dean  and  his  party  patrolled 
the  college,  and  succeeded  at  last  in  restoring  order,  though 
not  -without  some  undignified  and  disagreeable  passages.  The 
lights  on  the  staircases,  wdiich  generally  burnt  all  night,  were 
of  course  put  out  as  they  approached.  On  the  first  staircase 
which  they  stormed,  the  porter's  lantern  was  knocked  out  of 
his  hand  by  an  unseen  adversary,  and  the  light  put  out  on 
the  bottom  stairs.  On  the  first  landing  the  bursar  trod  on 
a  small  terrier  belonging  to  a  fast  freshman,  and  the  dog 
naturally  thereupon  bit  the  bursar's  leg ;  while  his  master 
and  other  enfants  j)erdus,  taking  advantage  of  the  diversion, 
rushed  down  the  dark  stairs,  past  the  party  of  order,  and 
into  the  quadrangle,  where  they  scattered  amidst  a  shout  of 
laughter,  ^^^lile  the  porter  was  gone  for  a  light,  the  Dean 
and  his  party  rashly  ventured  on  a  second  ascent.  Here  an 
unexpected  catastrophe  awaited  them.  On  the  top  landing 
lived  one  of  the  steadiest  men  in  college,  whose  door  had 
been  tried  shortly  before.  He  had  been  roused  out  of  his 
fij'st  sleep,  and,  vowing  vengeance  on  the  next  comers,  stood 
behind  his  oak,  holding  his  brown  George,  or  huge  earthen- 
ware receptacle,  half  full  of  dirty  water,  in  which  his  bed- 
maker  had  been  washing  up  his  tea-things.  Hearing  stealthy 
steps  and  whisperings  on  the  stairs  below,  he  suddenly  threw 
open  his  oak,  discharging  the  whole  contents  of  his  bro^\^l 
George  on  the  approaching  authorities,  with  a  shout  of, 
"  Take  that  for  your  skulking." 

The  exasperated  Dean  and  tutors  rushing  on,  seized  their 
astonished  and  innocent  assailant,  and  after  receiving  ex- 
planations, and  the  ofler  of  ilean  towels,  hurried  off  agiiu 


264  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXIORD. 

after  the  real  enemy.  And  now  the  porter  appeared  again 
with  a  light,^nd,  continuing  their  rounds,  they  apprehended 
and  disarmed  Drysdale,  collected  the  college  plate,  maiked 
down  others  of  the  rioters,  visited  Chanter's  rooms,  held  a 
parley  with  the  one  of  their  number  who  was  screwed  up  in 
his  rooms,  and  discovered  that  the  bars  had  been  wrenched 
out  of  the  kitchen  window.  After  which  they  retired  to 
sleep  on  their  indignation,  and  quiet  settled  down  again  or 
the  ancient  and  venerable  college. 

The  next  morning  at  chapel  many  of  the  revellers  met ;  in 
fact,  there  was  a  fuller  attendance  than  usual,  for  every  one 
felt  that  something  serious  must  be  impending.  After  such 
a  night  the  dons  must  make  a  stand,  or  give  up  altogether. 
The  most  reckless  only  of  the  fast  set  were  absent.  St.  Cloud 
was  there,  dressed  even  more  precisely  than  usual,  and  looking 
as  if  he  were  in  tlie  habit  of  going  to  bed  at  ten,  and  had 
never  heard  of  milk  punch.  Tom  turned  out  not  much  the 
worse  himself,  but  in  his  heart  feeling  not  a  little  ashamed  of 
the  whole  business ;  of  the  party,  the  men,  but,  above  all,  of 
himself.  He  thrust  the  shame  back,  however,  as  well  as  he 
could,  and  put  a  cool  face  on  it.  Probably  most  of  the  men 
were  in  much  the  same  state  of  mind.  Even  in  St.  Ambrose's, 
reckless  and  vicious  as  the  college  had  become,  by  far  the 
greater  part  of  the  undergraduates  would  gladly  have  seen  a 
change  in  the  direction  of  order  and  decency,  and  were  sick 
of  the  wretched  licence  of  doing  right  in  their  own  eyes,  and 
wrong  in  every  other  person's. 

As  the  men  trooped  out  of  chapel,  they  formed  in  corners 
of  the  quadrangle,  except  the  reading  set,  who  went  olf 
quietly  to  their  rooms.  There  was  a  pause  of  a  minute  or 
two.  Neither  principal,  dean,  tutor,  nor  fellow  followed  as 
on  ordinary  occasions.  "  They're  hatching  something  in  the 
outer  chapel,"  said  one. 

"  It'll  be  a  coarse  time  for  Chanter,  I  take  it,"  said  anothei 

"  Was  your  name  sent  to  the  buttery  for  }  is  supper  ?  " 

"1^0,  I  took  d — d  good  care  of  that,"  said  St.  Cloud,  who 
was  addressed. 

"  Drysdale  was  caught,  wasn't  he  1 " 

"  So  I  hear,  and  nearly  frightened  the  Dean  and  the  porter 
out  of  their  wits  by  staggering  after  thorn  with  a  carving- 
knife." 

"  He'll  be  sacked,  of  course." 

"  Much  he'll  care  for  that." 

"  Here  they  come,  then  ;  by  Jove,  how  black  they  look  ! " 

The  authorities  now  came  out  of  the  antechapel  door,  and 
walked  slowly  across  towards  the  PrincTf  d's  house  in  w,  body. 


IHE   SCHOOLS.  265 

At  this  moment,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  Jack  trotted 
into  the  front  quadrangle,  dragging  after  iiim  the  light  steel 
chain  with  which  he  was  usually  fastened  up  in  Drysdalt's 
scout's  room  at  night.  He  came  innocently  towards  one  and 
another  of  the  groups,  and  retired  from  each  much  astonished 
at  the  low  growl  with  which  his  acquaintance  was  repudiated 
on  all  sides. 

"  Porter,  whose  dog  is  that  ? "  said  the  Dean,  catching 
sight  of  him. 

"  ;Mr.  Drysdale's  dog,  sir,  I  think,  sir,"  answered  the 
porter. 

"Probably  the  animal  who  bit  me  last  night,"  said  the 
bursar.  His  knowledge  of  dogs  was  small ;  if  Jack  had 
fastened  on  him  he  would  probably  have  been  in  bed  from 
the  effects. 

"  Turn  the  dog  out  of  college,"  said  the  Dean. 

"  Please,  sir,  he's  a  very  savage  dog,  sir,"  said  the  porter, 
whose  respect  for  Jack  was  unbounded. 

"  Turn  him  out  immediately,"  replied  the  Dean. 

The  wretched  porter,  arming  himself  with  a  broom,  ap- 
proached Jack,  and  after  some  coaxing  managed  to  catch  hold 
of  the  end  of  his  chain,  and  began  to  lead  him  towards  the 
gates,  carefiiUy  holding  out  the  broom  towards  Jack's  nose 
with  his  other  hand,  to  protect  himself.  Jack  at  first  hauled 
away  at  his  chain,  and  then  began  circling  round  the  porter 
at  the  full  extent  of  it,  evidently  meditating  an  attack.  Not- 
withstanding the  seriousness  of  the  situation  the  ludicrous 
alarm  of  the  porter  set  the  men  laughing. 

"  Come  along,  or  Jack  will  be  pinning  the  wi'etched 
Copas,"  said  Jervis ;  and  he  and  Tom  stepped  up  to  the 
terrified  little  man,  and,  releasing  him,  led  Jack,  who  knew 
them  both  well,  out  of  college. 

"Were  you  at  that  supper  party?"  said  Jervis,  as  they 
deposited  Jack  with  an  ostler,  who  was  lounging  outside  the 
gates,  to  be  taken  to  Drysdale's  stables. 

"  No,"  said  Tom. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it ;  there  will  be  a  pretty  clean  sweep 
after  last  night's  doings." 

"  But  I  was  in  the  quadrangle  when  they  came  out." 

"  Not  caught,  eh  ] "  said  Jervis. 

"  No,  luckily,  I  got  to  my  o^vn  rooms  at  once." 

"  Were  any  of  the  crew  caught  1 " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of." 

"  Well,  we  shall  hear  enough  of  it  before  lecture-time." 

Jervis  was  right.  There  was  a  meeting  in  the  common 
room  directly   after  breakfast.      Drysdale,  anticipating   his 


266  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

fate,  took  his  name  oS  before  they  sent  for  him.  Chantei 
and  three  or  four  others  were  rusticated  for  a  year,  and 
Blake  was  ordered  to  go  down  at  once.  He  was  a  scholar, 
and  what  was  to  be  done  in  his  case  would  be  settled  at  the 
meeting  at  the  end  of  term. 

For  twenty-four  hours  it  was  supposed  that  St.  Cloud  had 
escaped  altogether  ;  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  was 
summoned  before  a  meeting  in  the  common  room.  The 
tutor  whose  door  had  been  so  effectually  screwed  up  that  he 
had  been  obliged  to  get  out  of  his  window  by  a  ladder  to 
attend  morning  chapel,  proved  wholly  unable  to  ajipreciate 
the  joke,  and  set  himself  to  work  to  discover  the  perpetrators 
of  it.  The  door  was  fastened  with  long  gimlets,  which  had 
been  screwed  firmly  in,  and  Avhen  driven  well  home,  their 
heads  knocked  off.  The  tutor  collected  the  shafts  of  the 
gimlets  from  the  carj^enter,  who  came  to  effect  an  entry  for 
him  ;  and,  after  careful  examination,  discovered  the  trade 
mark.  So,  putting  them  in  his  pocket,  he  walked  off  into  the 
town,  and  soon  came  back  with  the  information  he  required, 
which  resulted  in  the  rustication  of  St.  Cloud,  an  event 
which  was  borne  by  the  college  with  the  greatest  equanimity. 

Shortly  afterwards  Tom  attended  in  the  schools'  quad 
rangle  again,  to  be  present  at  the  jDosting  of  the  class  list. 
This  time  there  were  plenty  of  anxious  faces ;  the  quadrangle 
was  full  of  them.  He  folt  almost  as  nervous  himself  as  if 
he  were  waiting  for  the  thhd  gun.  He  thrust  himself 
forward,  and  was  amongst  the  first  "who  caught  sight  of  the 
document.  One  look  was  enough  for  him,  and  the  next 
moment  he  was  off  at  fuU  speed  to  St.  Ambrose,  and,  rushing 
headlong  into  Hardy's  rooms,  seized  him  by  the  hand,  and 
shook  it  vehemently. 

"  It's  aU  right,  old  fellow,"  he  cried,  as  soon  as  he  could 
catch  his  breath ;  "it's  all  right.  Four  firsts;  you're  one  of 
them  :  well  done  !  " 

"  And  Grey,  where's  he  ;  is  he  all  right  ?  " 

"  Bless  me,  I  forgot  to  look,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  only  read  the 
firsts,  and  then  came  off  as  hard  as  I  could." 

"  Then  he  is  not  a  first." 

"No;  I'm  sure  of  that." 

"I  must  go  and  see  him  ;  ho  deserved  it  far  more  than  I." 

"  No,  by  Jove,  old  boy,"  said  Tom,  seizing  him  again  by 
the  hand,  "  that  he  didn't ;  nor  any  man  that  ever  went  into 
the  schools." 

"Thank  you,  Brown,"  said  Hardy,  returning  his  warm 
grip.  "You  do  one  good.  Now  to  see  poor  Grey,  and  to 
write  to  my  dear  old  father  before  hall.     Fancy  him  opening 


COMJrEMOKATTON.  267 

the  letter  at  brealcfast  tlie  day  after  to-morrow  !  I  only  hope 
it  won't  hurt  liim." 

"  Never  fear.  I  don't  believe  in  people  dying  of  joy,  and 
anything  short  of  sudden  death  he  won't  mind  at  the  price." 

Hardy  hurried  off,  and  Tom  went  to  his  own  rooms,  and 
smoked  a  cigar  to  allay  his  excitement,  and  thought  about 
his  friend,  and  all  they  had  felt  together,  and  laughed  and 
mourned  over  in  the  short  months  of  their  friendsliip.  A 
pleasant  dreamy  half-hour  he  spent  thus,  till  the  hall  bell 
roused  him,  and  he  made  his  toilette  and  went  to  his  dinner. 

It  was  with  very  mixed  feelings  that  Hardy  walked  by 
the  servitors'  table  and  took  his  seat  with  the  bachelors,  an 
equal  at  last  amongst  equals.  No  man  who  is  worth  his  salt 
can  leave  a  place  where  he  has  gone  through  hard  and 
searching  discipline,  and  been  tried  in  the  very  depths  of  his 
heart,  without  regret,  however  much  he  may  have  winced 
under  the  discipline.  It  is  no  light  thing  to  fold  up  and 
lay  by  for  ever  a  portion  of  one's  life,  even  when  it  can  be 
laid  by  with  honour  and  in  thankfulness. 

But  it  was  with  no  mixed  feelings,  but  with  a  sense  of 
entire  triumph  and  joy,  that  Tom  watched  his  friend  taking 
his  new  place,  and  the  dons  one  after  another  coming  up  and 
congratulating  him,  and  treating  him  as  the  man  who  had 
done  honour  to  them  and  his  collesje. 


CHAPTEE     XXV. 

COMMEMORATION. 

The  end  of  the  academic  year  was  now  at  hand,  and  Oxford 
was  beginning  to  put  on  her  gayest  clothing.  The  college 
gardeners  were  in  a  state  of  unusual  activity,  and  the  lawns 
and  flower-beds,  which  form  such  exquisite  settings  to  many 
of  the  venerable  grey,  gabled  buildings,  were  as  neat  and  as 
bright  as  hands  could  make  them.  Cooks,  butlers,  and  their 
assistants  were  bestirring  themselves  in  kitchen  and  buttery, 
under  the  direction  of  bursars  jealous  of  the  fame  of  their 
houses,  in  the  preparation  of  the  abundant  and  solid  fare 
with  which  Oxford  is  wont  to  entertain  all  comers.  Every- 
thing the  best  of  its  kind,  no  stint  but  no  nonsense,  seems  to 
be  the  wise  rule  which  the  University  hands  down  and  lives 
up  to  in  these  matters.  However  we  may  differ  as  to  her 
degeneracy  in  other  departments,  all  who  have  ever  visited 
her  will  admit  that  in  this  of  hospitality  she  is  still  a  great 
national  teacher,  acknowledging  and  preaching  by  examp'e 


268  TOM  BTIOWN  AT   OXFORD. 

the  fact,  that  eating  and  drinking  are  important  parts  of 
man's  life,  which  are  to  be  allowed  their  due  prominence, 
and  not  thrust  into  a  corner,  but  are  to  be  done  soberly  and 
thankfully,  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man.  The  coaches  were 
bringing  in  heavy  loads  of  visitors  ;  carriages  of  all  kinds 
were  coming  in  from  the  neighbouring  counties ;  and  lodgings 
in  the  High-street  were  going  up  to  fabulous  prices. 

In  one  of  these  High-street  lodgings,  on  the  evening  of 
the  Saturday  before  Commemoration,  Miss  Winter  and  her 
cousin  are  sitting.  They  have  been  in  Oxford  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  day,  having  posted  up  from  Englebourn  ; 
but  they  have  only  just  come  in,  for  the  younger  lady  is  still 
in  her  bonnet,  and  ^liss  Winter's  lies  on  the  table.  The 
windows  are  wide  open,  and  Miss  Winter  is  sitting  at  one  of 
them  ;  while  her  cousin  is  busied  in  examining  the  furniture 
and  decorations  of  their  temporary  home,  now  commenting 
upon  these,  now  pouring  out  praises  of  Oxford. 

"  Isn't  it  too  charming  1     I  never  dreamt  that  any  town 
could  be  so  beautiful.     Don't  you  feel  wild  about  it,  Katie  1 " 
"  It  is  the  queen  of  towns,  dear.     But  I  Icnow  it  well,  you 
see,  so  that  I  can't  be  quite  so  enthusiastic  as  you." 

"  Oh,  those  dear  gardens  !  what  was  the  name  of  those 
ones  with  the  targets  up,  where  they  were  shooting  1  Don't 
you  remember  1 " 

"  New  College  Gardens,  on  the  old  city  wall,  you  mean  1 " 
"  No,  no.    They  were  very  nice  and  sentimental.     I  should 
like  to  go  and  sit  and  read  poetry  there.     But  I  mean  the 
big  ones,  the  gorgeous,  princely  ones,  with  wicked  old  Bishop 
Laud's  gallery  looking  into  them." 
"  Oh  !  St.  John's,  of  course." 

"  Yes,  St.  John's.     Why  do  you  hate  Laud  so,  Katie  1 " 
"  I  don't  hate  him,  dear.     He  was  a  Berkshire  man,  you 
know.     But  I  think  he  did  a  great  deal  of  harm  to  the 
Church." 

"  How  did  you  think  my  new  silk  looked  in  the  gardens  1 
How  lucky  I  brought  it,  wasn't  it?  I  shouldn't  have  liked  to 
have  been  in  nothing  but  muslins.  They  don't  suit  here  ; 
you  want  something  richer  amongst  the  old  buildings,  and  on 
the  beautiful  velvety  turf  of  the  gardens.  How  do  you  think 
I  looked  1 " 

"  You  looked  like  a  queen,  dear ;  or  a  lady-in-waiting  at 
least." 

"Yes,  a  lady-in-waiting  on  Henrietta  Maria.  Didn't  you 
hear  one  of  the  gentlemen  say  that  she  was  lodged  in  St. 
John's  when  Charles  marched  to  reheve  Gloucester?  Ah  ' 
can't  you  fancy  her  sweeping  about  the  gardens,  with  her 


COMMEMOEATION.  269 

ladies  following  her.  and  Bishop  Laud  walking  just  a  little 
behind  her,  and  talking  in  a  low  voice  about — let  me  see — 
something  very  important  ? " 

"  Oh,  Mary,  where  has  your  history  gone  1  He  was  Arch- 
bishop, and  was  safely  locked  up  in  the  Tower." 

"  Well,  perhaps  he  was  ;  then  he  couldn't  be  with  her,  of 
course.  How  stupid  of  you  to  remember,  Katie.  Why  can't 
you  make  up  your  mind  to  enjoy  yourself  when  you  come  out 
for  a  holiday  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  enjoy  myself  any  the  more  for  forgetting 
dates,"  said  Katie,  laughing. 

"Oh,  you  would  though;  only  try.  But  let  me  see,  it  can't 
oe  Laud.  Then  it  shall  be  that  cruel  drinking  old  man,  with 
the  wooden  leg  made  of  gold,  who  was  governor  of  Oxford 
when  the  king  was  away.  He  must  be  hobbling  along  aftei 
the  queen  in  a  buff  coat  and  breast-plate,  holding  his  hat  with 
a  long  drooping  white  feather  in  his  hand." 

"  But  you  wouldn't  like  it  at  all,  Mary ;  it  Avould  be  too 
serious  for  you.  The  poor  queen  would  be  too  anxious  for 
gossip,  and  you  ladies-in-waiting  would  be  obliged  to  walk 
after  her  without  saying  a  word." 

"  Yes,  that  would  be  stupid.  But  then  she  would  have  to 
go  away  with  the  old  governor  to  write  despatches  ;  and  some 
of  the  young  officers  with  long  hair  and  beautiful  lace  sleeves, 
and  large  boots,  whom  the  king  had  left  behind,  wounded, 
might  come  and  walk  perhaps,  or  sit  in  the  sun  in  the  quiet 
gardens." 

Mary  looked  over  her  shoulder  with  the  merriest  twinkle 
in  her  eye,  to  see  how  her  steady  cousin  would  take  this  last 
picture.  "The  college  authorities  would  never  allow  that," 
she  said  quietly,  still  looking  out  of  window;  "if  you  wanted 
beaus,  you  must  have  had  them  in  black  gowns." 

"  They  would  have  been  jealous  of  the  soldiers,  you  think  1 
Well,  I  don't  mind  ;  the  black  gowns  are  very  pleasant,  only 
a  little  stiff.     But  how  do  you  think  my  bonnet  looked  1  " 

"  Charmingly.  But  when  are  you  going  to  have  done 
looking  in  the  glass  1  You  don't  care  for  the  buildings,  I 
believe,  a  bit.  Come  and  look  at  St.  Mary's ;  there  is  such 
a  lovely  light  on  the  steeple  ! " 

"  I'll  come  directly,  but  I  must  get  these  flowers  right. 
I'm  sure  there  are  too  many  in  this  trimming." 

Mary  was  trying  her  new  bonnet  on  over  and  over  again 
before  the  mantel-glass,  and  pulling  out  and  changing  the 
places  of  the  blush-rose  buds  with  which  it  was  trimmed. 
Just  then  a  noise  of  wheels,  accompanied  by  a  merry  tune 
on  a  cornopean,  came  in  fiom  the  street. 


270  TOM   BROWN    AT    OXFOKD. 

"  What's  that,  Katie  ? "  she  cried,  stopping  her  work  for 
a  moment. 

"  A  coach  coming  up  from  IMagdalen  Bridge.  I  think  it 
is  a  cricketing  party  coiaing  home." 

"  Oh,  let  me  see,"  and  she  tripped  across  to  the  window, 
bonnet  in  hand,  and  stood  beside  her  cousin.  And,  then, 
sure  enough,  a  coach  covered  with  cricketers  returning  from 
a  match,  drove  past  the  window.  The  young  ladies  looked 
out  at  first  with  great  curiosity  ;  but,  suddenly  finding  them- 
selves the  mark  for  a  wliole  coach-load  of  male  eyes,  shrank 
back  a  little  before  the  cricketers  had  passed  on  towards  the 
"  Mitre."  As  the  coach  passed  oat  of  sight,  Mary  gave  a 
pretty  toss  of  her  head,  and  said, — 

"  Well,  they  don't  want  for  assurance,  at  any  rate.  I 
think  they  needn't  have  stared  so." 

"It  was  our  fault,"  said  Katie  ;  "we  shouldn't  have  been 
at  the  window.  Besides,  you  know  you  are  to  be  a  lady-in- 
waiting  on  Henrietta  Maria  up  here,  and  of  course  you  must 
get  used  to  being  stared  at." 

"  Oh  yes,  but  that  was  to  be  by  young  gentlemen  wounded 
in  the  wars,  in  lace  ruffles,  as  one  sees  them  in  pictures. 
That's  a  very  different  thing  from  young  gentlemen  in  flan- 
nel trousers  and  straw  hats,  driving  up  the  High  Street  on 
coaches.  I  declare  one  of  them  had  the  impudence  to  bow 
as  if  he  knew  you." 

"So  he  does.     That  was  my  cousin." 

"  Your  cousin  !  Ah,  I  remember.  Then  he  must  be  my 
cousin  too." 

"  No,  not  at  all.     He  is  no  relation  of  yours." 

"Well,  I  sha'n't  break  my  heart.  Ijut  is  he  a  good 
partner  1 " 

"  I  should  say,  yes.  But  I  hardly  know.  We  used  to  be 
a  great  deal  together  as  children,  but  papa  has  been  such  an 
invalid  lately." 

"  Ah,  I  wonder  how  ^mcle  is  getting  on  at  the  Vice-Chan- 
ceUor's.  Look,  it  is  past  eight  by  St.  Mary's.  Wlien  were 
\^  e  to  go  ?  " 

"  We  were  asked  for  nine." 

**  Then  we  must  go  and  dress.  Will  it  be  very  slow  and 
?tiflF,  Katie  1  I  wish  we  were  going  to  sometliing  not  quite 
i\)  grand." 

"  You'll  find  it  very  pleasant,  I  dare  say." 

"  There  won't  be  any  dancing,  though,  I  know ;  vnl\ 
there  1  " 

"No  ;  I  should  think  certainly  not." 

"  Dear  me  !  I  hope  there  will  be  some  young  men  there 


OOMT^rRMOEATTON.  271 

— T  shall  be  so  shy,  I  know,  if  there  are  nothing  bnt  wise 
people.  How  do  you  talk  to  a  Eegius  Professor,  Xatie  1  It 
must  be  awfi;l." 

"  He  will  probably  be  at  least  as  uncomfortable  as  yon, 
dear,"  said  Miss  Winter,  laughing,  and  rising  from  the 
window  ;  "let  us  go  and  dress." 

"  Shall  T  wear  my  best  gown  ] — What  shall  I  put  in  my 
hair?" 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  maid-servant 
introduced  Mr.  Brown. 

It  was  the  St.  Ambrose  drag  which  had  passed  along 
shortly  before,  bearing  the  eleven  home  from  a  triumphant 
match.  As  they  came  over  Magdalen  Bridge,  Drysdale,  who 
had  returned  to  Oxford  as  a  private  gentleman  after  his  late 
catastrophe,  which  he  had  managed  to  keep  a  secret  from 
his  guardian,  and  was  occupying  his  usual  place  on  the  box, 
called  out — 

"  Now,  boys,  keep  your  eyes  open,  there  must  be  plenty  of 
lionesses  about ; "  and  thus  warned,  the  whole  load,  including 
the  cornopean  player,  were  on  the  look-out  for  lady  visitors, 
profanely  called  lionesses,  all  the  way  lap  the  street.  They 
had  been  gratified  by  the  sight  of  several  walking  in  tho 
High  Street  or  looking  out  of  the  windows,  before  they 
caught  sight  of  Miss  Winter  and  her  cousin.  The  appear- 
ance of  these  young  ladies  created  a  sensation. 

"  I  say,  look  !  up  there  in  that  first  floor." 

"By  George,  they're  something  like." 

"  The  sitter  for  choice." 

"  No,  no,  the  standing-up  one ;  she  looks  so  saucy." 

"  Hullo,  Brown  !  do  you  know  them  1 " 

"  One  of  them  is  my  cousin,"  said  Tom,  who  had  just 
been  guilty  of  the  salutation  which,  as  we  saw,  excited  the 
indignation  of  the  younger  lady. 

"  What  luck  ! — You'U  ask  me  to  meet  them — when  shall 
it  be  1     To-morrow  at  breakfast,  I  vote." 

"  I  say,  you'll  introduce  me  before  the  ball  on  Monday  1 
promise  now,"  said  another. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  see  anything  of  theni,"  said 
Tom ;  "  I  shall  just  leave  a  pasteboard,  but  I'm  not  in  the 
humour  to  be  dancing  about  lionizing." 

A  storm  of  indignation  arose  at  this  speech  :  the  notion 
that  any  of  the  fraternity  who  had  any  hold  on  lionesses, 
particularly  if  they  were  pretty,  should  not  use  it  to  the 
utmost  for  the  benefit  of  the  rest,  and  the  glory  and  honour 
of  the  coUege,  was  revolting  to  the  undergraduate  mind.  So 
the  whole  body  escorted  Tom  to  the  door  of  the  lodgings, 


272  TOM   BEOWN    AT   OXFORD. 

impressing  upon  him  the  necessity  of  engaging  both  his 
lionesses  for  every  hour  of  every  day  in  St.  Ambrose's,  and 
left  him  not  till  they  had  heard  liim  ask  for  the  young  ladies, 
and  seen  him  fairly  on  bis  way  upstairs.  They  need  not 
have  taken  so  much  trouble,  for  in  his  secret  soul  he  was  no 
little  pleased  at  the  appearance  of  creditable  ladies,  more  or 
less  belonging  to  him,  and  would  have  found  his  way  to  see 
them  quickly  and  surely  enough  without  any  urging.  More- 
over, he  had  been  really  fond  of  his  coursin,  years  before, 
when  they  had  been  boy  and  girl  together. 

So  they  greeted  one  another  very  cordially,  and  looked  one 
another  over  as  they  shook  hands,  to  see  what  changes  time 
had  made.  He  makes  his  changes  rapidly  enough  at  that 
age,  and  mostly  for  the  better,  as  the  two  cousins  thought. 
It  was  nearly  three  years  since  they  had  met,  and  then  he 
was  a  fifth-form  boy  and  she  a  girl  in  the  school-room.  They 
were  both  conscious  of  a  strange  pleasure  in  meeting  again, 
mixed  with  a  feehng  of  shyness  and  wonder  whether  they 
should  be  able  to  step  back  into  their  old  relations. 

Mary  looked  on  demurely,  really  watching  them,  but  osten- 
sibly engaged  on  the  rosebud  trimming.  Presently  Miss 
Winter  turned  to  her  and  said,  "  I  don't  think  you  two  ever 
met  before  ;  I  must  introduce  you,  I  suppose ; — my  cousin 
Tom,  my  cousin  Mary." 

"  Then  we  must  be  cousins  too,"  said  Tom,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

"  No,  Katie  says  not,"  she  answered. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  believe  her,  then,"  said  Tom  ;  "but  what 
are  you  going  to  do  now,  to-night  1  Why  didn't  you  write 
and  tell  me  you  were  coming  1  " 

"  We  have  been  so  shut  up  lately,  owing  to  papa's  bad 
health,  that  I  really  had  almost  forgotten  you  were  at  Oxford." 

"  By  the  bye,"  said  Tom,  "  where  is  uncle  ]  " 

"  Oh,  he  is  dining  at  the  Vice-Chancellor's,  who  is  an  old 
college  friend  of  his.  We  have  only  been  up  here  three  or 
four  hours,  and  it  has  done  him  so  much  good.  I  am  so  glad 
we  spirited  him  up  to  coming." 

"  You  ha\en't  made  any  engagements  yet,  1  hope  1 " 

"  Indeed  we  have  ;  I  can't  tell  how  many.  We  came  in 
time  for  luncheon  in  Balliol.  Mary  and  I  made  it  our  dinner, 
and  we  have  been  seeing  sights  ever  since,  and  have  been 
asked  to  go  to  I  don't  know  how  many  luncheons  and 
breakfasts." 

"  What,  with  a  lot  of  dons,  I  suppose  ? "  said  Tom,  spite- 
fully ;  "  you  won't  enjoy  Oxford,  then ;  they'll  bore  you  \*) 
death." 


COMMEMOEATION.  273 

"  There  now,  Katie ;  that  is  just  what  I  was  afraid  of," 
joined  in  Mary;  "yoir  rememhei  we  didn't  hea,r  a  word  about 
balls  all  the  afternoon." 

"  You  haven't  got  your  tickets  for  the  balls,  then  1 "  said 
Tom,  brightening  up. 

"  No,  how  shall  we  get  them  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  can  manage  that,  I've  no  doubt." 

"  Stop  ;  how  are  we  to  go  1     Papa  will  never  take  us." 

"  You  needn't  think  about  that ;  anybody  will  chaperone 
you.  Nobody  cares  about  that  sort  of  thing  at  Cominemo- 
ration." 

"  Indeed  I  think  you  had  better  wait  till  I  have  talked  to 
papa." 

"  Then  all  the  tickets  will  be  gone,"  said  Tom.  "  You 
must  go.  "Wliy  shouldn't  I  chaperone  you  ?  I  know  several 
men  whose  sisters  are  going  with  them." 

"  No,  that  will  scarcely  do,  I'm  afraid.  But  really,  Mary, 
we  must  go  and  dress." 

"  Where  are  you  going,  then  1 "  said  Tom. 

"To  an  evening  party  at  the  Vice-Chancellor's;  we  are 
asked  for  nine  o'clock,  and  the  half-hour  has  struck." 

"  Hang  the  dons ;  how  unlucky  that  I  didn't  know  before ! 
Have  you  any  flowers,  by  the  way  ?  " 

"Not  one." 

"Then  I  will  try  to  get  you  some  by  the  time  you  are 
ready.     May  1 1 " 

"  Oh  yes,  pray  do,"  said  Llary.  "  That's  capital,  Katie,  isn't 
it  ]  Now  I  shall  have  something  to  put  in  my  hair ;  I 
couldn't  think  what  I  was  to  wear." 

Tom  took  a  look  at  the  hair  in  question,  and  then  left 
them  and  hastened  out  to  scour  the  town  for  flowers,  as  if 
his  life  depended  on  success.  In  the  morning,  he  would 
probably  have  resented  as  insulting,  or  laughed  at  as  wUdly 
improbable,  the  suggestion  that  he  would  be  so  employed 
before  night. 

A  double  chair  was  drawn  up  opposite  the  door  when  he 
came  back,  and  the  ladies  were  coming  down  into  the  sitting- 
room. 

"  Oh  look,  Katie  !  What  lovely  flowers  !  How  very  kind 
of  you." 

Tom  surrendered  as  much  of  his  burden  as  that  young 
lady's  little  round  white  hands  could  clasp,  to  her,  and 
deposited  the  vest  on  the  table. 

"Naw,  Katie,  which  shall  I  wear — this  beautiful  white 
rose  all  by  itself,  or  a  Avreath  of  these  pansies  ?  Here,  1 
have  a  wire :  I  can  make  them  up  in  a  minute."    She  turned 

T    . 


274  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

to  the  glass,  and  held  the  rich  cream-white  rose  against 
her  hair,  and  then  turning  on  Tom,  added,  "  What  do  you 
think  V 

"  I  thought  fern  would  suit  your  hair  better  than  anything 
else,"  said  Tom  ;  "  and  so  I  got  these  leaves,"  and  he  picked 
out  two  slender  fern-leaves. 

"  How  very  kind  of  you  !  Let  me  see,  how  do  you  mean  ? 
Ah!  I  see ;  it  will  be  charming;"  and  so  saying,  she  held 
the  leaves  one  in  each  hand  to  the  sides  of  her  head,  and 
then  floated  about  the  room  for  needle  and  thread,  and  with 
a  few  nimble  stitches  fastened  together  the  simple  green 
ciown,  which  her  cousin  put  on  for  her,  making  the  points 
meet  above  her  forehead.  Maiy  was  wild  with  delight  at 
the  eflect,  and  full  of  thanks  to  Tom  as  he  helped  them 
hastily  to  tie  up  bouquets,  and  then,  amidst  much  laughing, 
they  squeezed  into  the  wheel  chair  together  (as  the  fashions 
of  that  day  allowed  two  young  ladies  to  do),  and  went  off  to 
their  party,  leaving  a  last  injunction  on  him  to  go  up  and 
put  the  rest  of  the  flowers  in  water,  and  to  call  dii-ectly  after 
breakfast  the  next  day. 

He  obeyed  his  orders,  and  pensively  arranged  the  rest  of 
the  flowers  in  the  china  ornaments  on  the  mantel-piece,  and 
in  a  soup  plate  which  he  got  and  placed  in  the  middle  of  the 
table,  and  then  spent  some  minutes  examining  a  pair  of 
gloves  and  other  small  articles  of  women's  gear  which  lay 
scattered  about  the  room.  The  gloves  particularly  attracted 
him,  and  he  flattened  them  out  and  laid  them  on  his  own 
large  brown  hand,  and  smiled  at  the  contrast,  and  took  other 
unjustifiable  liberties  with  tliem  ;  after  which  he  returned  to 
college  and  endured  much  banter  as  to  the  time  his  call  had 
lasted,  and  jDromised  to  engage  his  cousins,  as  he  called 
them,  to  grace  some  festivities  in  St.  Ambrose's  at  their  first 
spare  moment. 

The  next  day,  being  Show  Sunday,  was  spent  by  tho 
young  ladies  in  a  ferment  of  spiritual  and  other  dissipation. 
They  attended  morning  service  at  eight  at  the  cathedral ; 
breakfasted  at  a  Merton  felloVs,  from  whence  they  adjourned 
to  University  sermon.  Here  Mary,  after  two  or  three  utterly 
uieflectual  attempts  to  understand  what  the  preacher  was 
meaning,  soon  ■  lapsed  into  an  examination  of  the  bonnets 
present,  and  thu  doctors  and  proctors  on  the  floor,  and  the 
undergraduates  in  the  gallery.  On  the  whole,  she  was,  per- 
haps, better  employed  than  her  cousin,  who  knew  enough 
oi'  religious  party  strife  to  follow  the  preacher,  and  was  made 
very  uncomfortable  by  his  discourse,  which  consisted  of  an 
attM.k  upon  the  recent  publications  of  the  most  eminent  and 


COMMEMORATION.  2'76 

best  men  in  the  University.  Poor  j\iiss  Winter  came  away 
mtli  a  vague  impression  of  the  wickedness  of  all  persons 
who  dare  to  travel  out  of  beaten  tracks,  and  that  the  most 
unsafe  state  of  mind  in  the  world  is  that  which  inquires  and 
aspires,  and  cannot  be  satisfied  with  the  rogidation  draught 
of  spiritual  doctors  in  high  places.  Being  naturally  of  a 
reverent  turn  of  mmd,  she  tried  to  think  that  the  discourse 
had  done  her  good.  At  the  same  time  she  was  somewhat 
troubled  by  the  thought  that  somehow  the  best  men  in  all 
times  of  which  she  had  read  seemed  to  her  to  be  just  those 
whom  the  preacher  was  in  fact  denouncing,  although  in 
words  he  had  praised  them  as  the  great  lights  of  the  Church. 
The  words  which  she  had  heard  in  one  of  the  lessons  kept 
running  in  her  head,  "  Trvily  ye  bear  witness  that  ye  do  allow 
the  deeds  of  your  fathers,  for  they  indeed  killed  them,  but 
ye  build  their  sepulchres."  But  she  had  little  leisure  to 
think  on  the  subject,  and,  as  her  father  praised  the  sermon 
as  a  noble  protest  against  the  fearful  tendencies  of  the  day  to 
Popery  and  Pantheism,  smothered  the  questiooings  of  her 
own  heart  as  well  as  she  could,  and  went  off  to  luncheon  in 
a  common  room ;  after  which  her  fatlier  retu-ed  to  their 
lodgings,  and  she  and  her  cousin  were  escorted  to  afternoon 
service  at  JMagdalen,  in  achieving  wbich  last  feat  they  had  to 
encounter  a  crush  only  to  be  equalled  by  that  at  the  pit 
entrance  to  the  opera  on  a  Jenny  Lind  night.  But  what  will 
not  a  delicately  nurtured  British  lady  go  through  when  her 
mind  is  bent  either  on  pleasure  or  duty  ] 

Poor  Tom's  feelings  throughout  the  day  may  be  more 
easily  conceived  than  described.  He  had  called  according  to 
order,  and  waited  at  their  lodgings  after  breakfast.  Of  course 
they  did  not  arrive.  He  had  caught  a  distant  glimpse  of 
them  in  St.  Mary's,  but  had  not  been  able  to  approach.  Ho 
had  called  again  in  the  afternoon  unsuccessfully,  so  far  as 
sof/ing  them  was  concerned ;  but  he  had  found  his  uncle  at 
home,  l3ang  upon  the  sofa.  At  first  he  was  much  dismayed 
by  this  rencontre,  but,  recovering  his  presence  of  mind  he 
proceeded,  I  regret  to  say,  to  take  the  length  of  the  old 
gentleman's  foot,  by  entering  into  a  minute  and  sjTupathizing 
incjuiry  into  the  state  of  his  health.  Tom  had  no  faith  what- 
ever in  his  uncle's  ill-health,  and  believed — as  many  persons 
of  robust  constitution  are  too  apt  to  do  when  brought  face  to 
face  with  nervous  patients — that  he  might  shake  off  tlie 
whole  of  his  maladies  at  any  time  by  a  resolute  efl'ort,  so  that 
his  sympathy  was  all  a  sham,  though,  perhaps,  one  may 
pardon  it,  considering  the  end  in  view,  which  was  that  of 
persuading  the  old  gentleman  to  entrust  the  young  ladies  to 

T  2 


276  TOM  BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

his  nephew's  care  for  that  eveuiug  in  the  Long  Walk ;  and 
generally  to  look  upon  his  nephew,  Thomas  Brown,  as  his 
natural  prop  and  supporter  in  the  University,  whose  one 
object  in  life  just  now  would  he  to  take  trouble  off  his  hands, 
and  who  was  of  that  rare  and  precocious  steadiness  of  character 
that  he  might  be  as  safely  trusted  as  a  Spanish  duenna.  To 
a  very  considerable  extent  the  victim  fell  into  the  toils.  He 
had  many  old  friends  at  the  colleges,  and  was  very  fond  of 
good  dinners,  and  long  sittings  afterwards.  This  very  evening 
he  was  going  to  dine  at  St.  John's,  and  had  been  much 
troubled  at  the  idea  of  having  to  leave  the  unrivalled  old 
port  of  that  learned  house  to  escort  his  daughter  and  niece  to 
the  Long  Walk.  Still  he  was  too  easy  and  good-natured  not 
to  -odsh  that  they  might  get  there,  and  did  not  Uke  the  notion 
of  their  going  with  perfect  strangers.  Here  was  a  com- 
promise. His  nephew  was  young,  but  still  he  was  a  near 
relation,  and  in  fact  it  gave  tlie  poor  old  man  a  plausible 
excuse  for  not  exerting  himself  as  he  felt  he  ought  to  do, 
which  was  all  he  ever  required  for  shifting  his  responsibilities 
and  duties  upon  other  shoulders. 

So  Tom  waited  quietly  till  the  young  ladies  came  home, 
which  they  did  just  before  hall-time.  JMr.  Winter  was 
getting  impatient.  As  soon  as  they  arrived  he  started  for 
St.  John's,  after  advising  them  to  remain  at  homo  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening,  as  they  looked  quite  tired  and  knocked 
up ;  but  if  they  were  resolved  to  go  to  the  Long  Walk,  his 
nephew  would  escort  them. 

"  How  can  L^ncle  Robert  say  we  look  so  thed  ? "  said 
Mary,  consulting  the  glass  on  the  subject ;  "  I  feel  quite  fresh. 
Of  course,  Katie,  you  mean  to  go  to  the  Long  Walk  1" 

"  I  hope  you  Avill  go,"  said  Tom ;  "  I  think  you  owe  me 
some  amends.  I  came  here  according  to  order  this  morning, 
and  you  were  not  in,  and  I  have  been  trying  to  catch  yoa 
ever  since." 

"  We  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Miss  Winter ;  "  indeed  wo 
have  not  had  a  minute  to  ourselves  all  day.  I  was  very  sorry 
to  think  that  we  should  have  brought  you  here  for  nothing 
this  morning." 

"  But  about  the  Long  Walk,  Katie?" 
"  Well,  don't  you  think  we  have  done  enough  for  to-day" 
I  should  like  to  have  tea  and  sit  quiotlj'  at  home,  as  papa 
suggested." 

"  Do  you  feel  very  tired,  dear  ?"  said  Mary,  seating  herself 
by  her  cousin  on  the  sofa,  and  taking  her  hand. 

"  No,  dear  :  T  only  want  a  little  quiet  and  a  cup  of 
tea'" 


COMMEMOEATION.  277 

"  Then  let  us  stay  here  qiaietly  till  it  is  time  to  start. 
Wfien  ought  we  to  get  to  the  Long  Walk '?" 

"About  half- past  seven,"  said  Tom  j  "you  shouldn't  be 
much  later  than  that." 

"  There  you  see,  Katie,  we  shall  have  two  hours'  perfect 
rest.  You  shall  lie  upon  the  sofa,  and  I  will  read  to  you,  and 
then  we  shall  go  on  all  fresh  again." 

Miss  Winter  smiled  and  said,  "  Very  well."  She  saw 
that  her  cousin  was  bent  on  going,  and  she  could  deny  her 
nothing. 

"  May  I  send  you  in  anything  from  college  1"  said  Tom; 
"  you  ought  to  have  something  more  than  tea,  I'm  sure." 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you.     We  dined  in  the  middle  of  the  day." 

"  Then  I  may  call  for  you  about  seven  o'clock,"  said  Tom, 
who  had  come  unwillingly  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had 
better  leave  them  for  the  present. 

"  Yes,  and  mind  you  come  in  good  time ;  we  mean  to  see 
the  whole  sight,  remember.     We  are  country  cousins." 

"  You  must  let  me  call  you  cousin  then,  just  for  the  look 
of  the  thing." 

"  Certainly,  just  for  the  look  of  the  thing,  we  will  be 
cousins  till  further  notice." 

"  Well,  you  and  Tom  seem  to  get  on  together,  Mary,"  said 
Miss  Winter,  as  they  heard  the  front  door  close.  "  I'm 
learning  a  lesson  from  you,  though  I  doubt  whether  I  shall 
ever  be  able  to  put  it  in  practice.  What  a  blessing  it  must 
be  not  to  be  shy  !" 

"Are  you  shy,  then?"  said  Mary,  looking  at  her  cousin 
with  a  playful  loving  smile. 

"  Yes,  dreadfully.  It  is  positive  pain  to  me  to  walk  into 
a  room  where  there  are  people  I  do  not  know." 

"  But  I  feel  that  too.  I'm  sure,  now,  you  were  much  less 
embarrassed  than  I  last  night  at  the  Vice  Chancellor's.  I 
quite  envied  you,  you  seemed  so  much  at  your  ease." 

"  Did  II  I  would  have  given  anything  to  be  back  here 
quietly.  But  it  is  not  the  same  thing  with  you.  You  have 
no  real  shyness,  or  you  would  never  have  got  on  so  fast  with 
my  cousin." 

"  Oh !  I  don't  feel  at  all  shy  with  him,"  said  Mary, 
laughing.  "  How  lucky  it  is  that  he  found  us  out  so  soon. 
I  like  him  so  much.  There  is  a  sort  of  way  about  him  as  if 
he  couldn't  help  himself.  I  am  sure  one  could  turn  hiia 
round  one's  finger.     Don't  you  think  so  ] " 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  But  he  always  was  soft-hearted, 
poor  boy.  But  he  isn't  a  boy  any  longer.  You  must  take 
care,  Mary.     Shall  we  ring  for  tea?" 


278  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFOKD. 

CHAPTEE  XXVI. 

THE   LONG    WALK    IN    CHRISTCHURCH    MEADOWS. 

"  Do  well  unto  thyself  and  men  wull  speak  good  of  tliee,"  is 
a  maxim  as  old  as  King  David's  time,  and  just  as  true  now  as 
it  was  then.  Hardy  had  found  it  so  since  the  publication  of 
the  class  list.  Within  a  few  days  of  that  event,  it  was  known 
that  his  was  a  very  good  first.  His  college  tutor  had  made 
his  own  inquiries,  and  repeated  on  several  occasions  in  a  con- 
fidential way  the  statement  that,  "  with  the  exception  of  a 
want  of  polish  in  his  Latin  and  Greek  verses,  which  we 
seldom  get  except  in  the  most  finished  public-school  men — 
Etonians  in  particular — there  has  been  no  better  examination 
in  the  schools  for  several  years."  The  worthy  tutor  went  on 
to  take  glory  to  the  college,  and  in  a  lower  degree  to  himself. 
He  called  attention,  in  more  than  one  common  room,  to  the 
fact  that  Hardy  had  never  had  any  private  tuition,  but  had 
attained  his  intellectual  development  solely  in  the  curriculum 
provided  by  St.  Ambrose's  College  for  the  training  of  the 
youth  intrusted  to  her.  "  He  himself,  indeed,"  he  would 
add,  "  had  always  taken  much  interest  in  Hardy,  and  had, 
perhaps,  done  more  for  him  than  would  be  possible  in  every 
case,  but  only  with  direct  reference  to,  and  in  supplement  of 
the  college  course." 

The  Principal  had  taken  marked  and  somewhat  pompous 
notice  of  him,  and  had  graciously  intimated  his  wish,  or, 
perhaps  I  should  say,  his  will  (for  he  would  have  been  much 
astonished  to  be  told  that  a  wish  of  his  could  count  for  less 
than  a  royal  mandate  to  any  man  who  had  been  one  of  his 
servitors),  that  Hardy  should  stand  for  a  fellowship  which 
had  lately  fallen  vacant.  A  few  weeks  before,  this  excessive 
affability  and  condescension  of  the  great  man  would  have 
wounded  Hardy  ;  but,  somehow,  the  sudden  rush  of  sunshine 
and  prosperity,  though  it  had  not  thrown  him  olf  his  balance, 
or  changed  his  estimate  of  men  and  things,  had  pulled  a  sort 
of  comfortable  sheath  over  his  sensitiveness,  and  gave  him  a 
second  skin,  as  it  were,  from  which  the  Principal's  shafts 
bounded  off  innocuous,  instead  of  piercing  and  rankling.  At 
first,  the  idea  of  standing  for  a  fellowship  at  St.  Ambrose's 
was  not  pleasant  to  him.  He  felt  inclined  to  open  up  entirely 
Dew  ground  for  himself,  and  stand  at  some  other  college, 
where  he  had  neither  acquaintance  nor  association.  But  on 
second  thoughts,  he  resolved  to  stick  to  his  old  college,  moved 
thereto  partly  by  the  lamentations  of  Tom,  when  he  heard  of 
his  friend's  meditated  emigration,  but  chiefly  by  the  unwilling- 


TEE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHRISTCHUECH  MEADOWS,   279 

ness  to  quit  a  hard  post  for  an  easier  one,  whicli  besets  natures 
like  his  to  their  own  discomfort,  but,  may  one  hope,  to  the 
signal  benefit  of  the  world  at  large.  Such  men  may  see  clearly 
enough  all  the  advantages  of  a  move  of  this  kind — may  quite 
appreciate  the  ease  which  it  woidd  bring  them — may  be  im- 
patient Avith  themselves  for  not  making  it  at  once — but,  when 
it  comes  to  the  actual  leaving  the  old  post,  even  though  it  may 
be  a  march  out  with  all  the  honours  of  war,  drums  beating 
and  colours  flying,  as  it  would  have  been  in  Hardy's  case, 
somehow  or  another,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  they  throw  up  the 
chance  at  the  last  moment,  if  not  earlier ;  pick  up  their  old 
arms — growling  perhaps  at  the  price  they  are  paying  to  keep 
their  own  self-respect — and  shoulder  back  into  the  press  to 
face  their  old  work,  muttering,  "  We  are  asses ;  we  don't 
know  what's  good  for  us ;  but  we  must  see  this  job  through 
somehow,  come  what  may." 

So  Hardy  stayed  on  at  St.  Ambrose,  waiting  for  the  fellow- 
ship examination,  and  certainly,  I  am  free  to  confess,  not  a 
little  enjoying  the  change  in  his  position  and  affeirs. 

He  had  given  up  his  low  dark  back  rooms  to  the  new 
servitor,  his  successor,  to  whom  he  had  presented  all  the 
rickety  furniture,  except  his  two  Windsor  chau-s  and  Oxford 
reading-table.  The  intrinsic  value  of  the  gift  was  not  gieat, 
certainly,  but  was  of  importance  to  the  poor  raw  boy  who  was 
taking  his  place ;  and  it  was  made  with  the  delicacy  of  one 
who  knew  the  situation.  Hardy's  good  offices  did  not  stop 
here.  Having  tried  the  bed  himself  for  upwards  of  three 
long  years,  he  knew  all  the  hard  places,  and  was  resolved 
while  he  stayed  up  that  they  should  never  chafe  another 
occupant  as  they  had  him.  So  he  set  himself  to  provide 
stuffing,  and  took  the  lad  about  with  him,  and  cast  a  skirt  of 
his  newly-acquii'ed  mantle  of  respectability  over  him,  and  put 
him  in  the  way  of  making  himself  as  comfortable  as  circum- 
stances would  allow  ;  never  disguising  from  him  all  the  while 
that  the  bed  was  not  to  be  a  bed  of  roses.  In  which  pursuit, 
though  not  yet  a  fellow,  perhaps  he  was  qualifymg  himself 
better  for  a  fellowsliip  than  he  could  have  done  by  any  amount 
of  cramming  for  polish  in  his  versihcation.  Not  that  the 
electors  of  St.  Ambrose  would  be  liliely  to  hear  of  or  appreciate 
this  kind  of  training.  Polished  versification  would  no  doubt 
have  told  more  in  that  quarter.  But  we  who  are  behind  the 
scenes  may  disagree  with  them,  and  hold  that  he  who  is  thus 
acting  out  and  learning  to  understand  the  meaning  of  the 
word  "  fellowship,"  is  the  man  for  our  votes. 

So  Hardy  had  left  his  rooms  and  gone  out  of  college,  into 
lodgings  near  at  li.aud.     The  sword,  epaulettes,  and  picture  of 


280  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFOED. 

his  father's  old  ship — his  tutelary  divinities,  as  Tom  called 
them — occupied  their  accustomed  place  in  his  new  rooms, 
except  that  there  was  a  looking-glass  over  the  mantel-piece 
here,  by  the  side  of  which  the  sword  hung,  instead  of  in  the 
centre,  as  it  had  done  while  he  had  no  such  luxury.  His 
"Windsor  chairs  occupied  each  side  of  the  pleasant  window  of 
his  sitting-room,  and  already  the  taste  for  luxuries  of  which 
he  had  so  often  accused  himself  to  Tom  began  to  peep  out  iu 
the  shape  of  one  or  two  fine  engravings.  Altogether  Fortune 
was  smiling  on  Hardy,  and  he  was  making  the  most  of  her, 
like  a  wise  man,  having  brought  her  round  by  proving  that 
he  could  get  on  without  her,  and  was  not  going  out  of  his  way 
to  gain  her  smiles.  Several  men  came  at  once,  even  before 
he  had  taken  his  B.A.  degree,  to  read  with  him,  and  others 
applied  to  know  whether  he  would  take  a  reading  party  in  the 
long  vacation.  In  short,  all  things  went  well  with  Hardy, 
and  the  Oxford  world  recognised  the  fact,  and  tradesmen  and 
college  servants  became  obsequious,  and  began  to  bow  before 
him,  and  recognise  him  as  one  of  their  lords  and  masters. 

It  was  to  Hardy's  lodgings  that  Tom  repaired  straightway, 
when  he  left  his  cousin  by  blood,  and  cousin  by  courtesy,  at 
the  end  of  the  last  chapter.  For,  running  over  in  liis  mind 
all  his  acquaintance,  he  at  once  fixed  upon  Hardy  as  the  man 
to  accompany  him  in  escorting  the  ladies  to  the  Long  Walk. 
Besides  being  his  own  most  intimate  friend,  Hardy  was  the  man 
whom  he  would  prefer  to  all  others  to  introduce  to  ladies  now. 
"  A  month  ago  it  might  have  been  different,"  Tom  thought ; 
"  he  was  such  an  old  guy  in  his  dress.  But  he  has  smartened 
up,  and  wears  as  good  a  coat  as  I  do,  and  looks  well  enough 
for  anybody,  though  he  never  will  be  much  of  a  dresser. 
Then  he  will  be  in  a  bachelor's  gown  too,  which  will  look 
respectable." 

"  Here  you  are  ;  that's  all  right ;  I'm  so  glad  you're  in,"  he 
said  as  he  entered  the  room.  "  Now  I  want  you  to  come  to 
the  Long  Walk  with  me  to-night." 

"  Very  well — will  you  call  for  me  V 

"  Yes,  and  mind  you  come  in  your  best  get-up,  old  fellow : 
we  shall  have  two  of  the  prettiest  girls  who  are  up,  witli  us." 

"  You  won't  want  me  then ;  they  will  have  plenty  of  escort." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  They  are  deserted  by  their  natural 
guardian,  my  old  uncle,  who  has  gone  out  to  dinner.  Oh, 
it's  all  right;  they  are  my  cousins,  more  like  sisters,  and  my 
uncle  knows  we  are  going.  In  fact  it  r^as  he  who  settled  that 
T  should  take  them." 

"  Yes,  but  you  see  I  don't  know  them." 

"  That  doesn't  matter.     I  can't  take  them  both  myself — ! 


THE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHKISTCHURCH  MEADOWS.      28] 

must  have  somebody  with  me,  and  I'm  so  glad  to  get  the 
chance  of  introducing  you  to  some  of  my  people.  You'll  know 
ihem  all,  I  hope,  before  long." 

"  Of  course  I  should  like  it  very  much,  if  you  are  sure  it's 
all  right." 

Tom  was  as  perfectly  sure  as  usual,  and  so  the  matter  was 
arranged.  Hardy  was  very  much  pleased  and  gratified  at  this 
proof  of  his  friend's  confidence;  and  I  am  not  going  to  say 
that  he  did  not  shave  again,  and  pay  most  unwonted  attention 
to  his  toilet  before  the  hour  fixed  for  Tom's  return.  The  fame 
of  Brown's  lionesses  had  sj'read  through  St.  Ambrose's  already, 
and  Hardy  had  heard  of  them  as  well  as  other  men.  There 
was  something  so  unusual  to  him  in  being  selected  on  such  an 
occasion,  when  the  smartest  men  in  the  college  were  wishing 
and  plotting  for  that  which  came  to  him  unasked,  that  he  may 
be  pardoned  for  feeling  something  a  little  like  vanity,  while 
he  adjusted  the  coat  which  Tom  had  recently  thought  of  with 
such  complacency,  and  looked  in  the  glass  to  see  that  his 
gown  hung  gracefully.  The  effect  on  the  whole  was  so  good, 
that  Tom  was  above  measure  astonished  when  he  came  back, 
and  could  not  help  indulging  in  some  gentle  chaff  as  they 
walked  towards  the  High-street  arm  in  arm. 

The  young  ladies  were  quits  rested,  and  sitting  flressed  and 
ready  for  their  walk,  when  Tom  and  Hardy  were  announced, 
and  entered  the  room.  Miss  Winter  rose  up,  surprised  and  a 
little  embarrassed  at  the  introduction  of  a  total  stranger  in  her 
father's  absence.  But  she  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  as 
became  a  well-bred  young  woman,  though  she  secretly  resolved 
to  lecture  Tom  in  private,  as  he  introduced  "  My  great  friend, 
Mr.  Hardy,  of  our  college.  My  cousins."  Mary  dropped  a 
pretty  little  demure  courtesy,  lilting  her  eyes  for  one  moment 
for  a  glance  at  Tom,  which  said  as  plain  as  look  could  speak, 
"  Well,  I  must  say  you  are  making  the  most  of  your  new- 
found relationship."  He  v/as  a  little  put  out  for  a  moment, 
but  then  recovered  himself,  and  said  apologetically, 

"  Mr.  Hardy  is  a  bachelor,  Katie — I  mean  a  Bachelor  of 
Arts,  and  he  knows  all  the  people  by  sight  up  here.  We 
couldn't  have  gone  to  the  Walk  without  some  one  to  show  us 
the  lions." 

"  Indeed,  I'm  afraid  you  give  me  too  much  credit,"  said 
ilurdy,  "  I  know  most  of  our  dons  by  sight,  certainly,  but 
scaicely  any  of  the  visitors." 

The  awkwardness  of  Tom's  attempted  explanation  set  every- 
thing wrong  again. 

Then  came  one  of  those  awkward  pauses  which  will  occur 
80  very  provokiagly  at  the  most  inopportune  times.     !Misd 


282  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

Winter  was  seized  with,  one  of  the  uncontrollable  fits  of  shy- 
ness, her  bondage  to  which  she  had  so  lately  been  grieving 
over  to  Mary ;  and  in  self-defence,  and  without  meaning  lq 
the  least  to  do  so,  drew  herself  up,  and  looked  as  proud  as 
you  please. 

Hardy,  whose  sensitiveness  was  almost  as  keen  as  a  woman's, 
felt  in  a  moment  the  awkwardness  of  tlie  situation,  and 
became  as  shy  as  Miss  Winter  herself.  If  the  floor  would 
have  suddenly  opened,  and  let  him  through  into  the  dark 
shop,  he  would  have  been  thankful ;  but,  as  it  would  not, 
there  he  stood,  meditating  a  sudden  retreat  from  the  room, 
and  a  tremendous  onslaught  on  Tom,  as  soon  as  he  could  catch 
him  alone,  for  getting  him  into  such  a  scrape.  Tom  was 
provoked  with  them  all  for  not  at  once  feeling  at  ease  with 
one  another,  and  stood  twirling  his  cap  by  the  tassel,  and 
looking  fiercely  at  it,  resolved  not  to  break  the  silence.  He 
had  been  at  aU  the  trouble  of  bringing  about  this  charming 
situation,  and  now  nobody  seemed  to  like  it,  or  to  know  what 
to  say  or  do.  They  might  get  themselves  out  of  it  as  they 
could,  for  anytliing  he  cared  ;  he  was  not  going  to  bother 
himself  any  more. 

Mary  looked  in  the  glass,  to  see  that  her  bonnet  was  quite 
right,  and  then  from  one  to  another  of  her  companions,  in  a 
little  wonder  at  their  unaccountable  behaviour,  and  a  little 
pique  that  two  young  men  should  be  standing  there  like 
unpleasant  images,  and  not  availing  themselves  of  the  privilege 
of  trying,  at  least,  to  make  themselves  agreeable  to  her. 
Luckily,  however,  for  the  party,  the  humorous  side  of  the 
tableau  struck  her  with  great  force,  so  that  when  Tom  lifted 
his  misanthropic  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  caught  hers,  they 
were  so  fuU  of  fun  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  allow 
liimself,  not  without  a  struggle,  to  break  first  into  a  smile, 
and  then  into  a  laugh.  This  brought  all  eyes  to  bear  on  him, 
and  the  ice,  being  once  broken,  dissolved  as  quickly  as  it  had 
gathered. 

"  I  really  can't  see  what  there  is  to  laugh  at,  Tom,"  said 
Miss  Winter,  smiling  herself,  nevertheless,  and  blushing  a 
little,  as  she  worked  or  pretended  to  work  at  buttoning  one 
of  her  gloves. 

"  Can't  you,  Katie  1  Well,  then,  isn't  it  very  ridiculous, 
and  enough  to  make  one  laugh,  that  we  four  should  be  standing 
here  in  a  sort  of  Quakers'  meeting,  when  we  ought  to  be  half- 
way to  the  Long  Walk  by  this  time  1" 

"  Oh,  do  let  us  start,"  said  Mary  ;  "  I  know  we  shfvll  be 
missing  all  the  best  of  the  sight." 

'^Come  along,  then,"  said  Tom,  leading   the  way   down 


THE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHEISTCHUKCH  MEADOWS.      283 

fitairs,  and  Hardy  and  the  ladies  followed,  and  they  descended 
into  the  High  Street,  walking  all  abreast,  the  two  ladies 
together,  with  a  gentleman  on  either  flank.  This  formation 
answered  well  enough  in  High  Street,  the  broad  pavement  of 
that  celebrated  thoroughfare  being  favourable  to  an  advance 
in  line.  But  when  they  had  wheeled  into  Oriel  Lane  the 
narrow  pavement  at  once  threw  the  line  into  confusion,  and 
after  one  or  two  fruitless  attempts  to  take  up  the  dressing 
they  settled  down  into  the  more  natural  formation  of  close 
column  of  cuuples,  the  leading  couple  consisting  of  Mary  and 
Tom,  and  the  remaining  couple  of  Miss  Winter  and  Hardy. 
It  was  a  lovely  midsummer  evening,  and  Oxford  was  looking 
her  best  under  the  genial  cloudless  sky,  so  that,  what  with 
the  usual  congratulations  on  the  weather,  and  explanatory 
remarks  on  the  buildings  as  they  passed  along.  Hardy 
managed  to  keep  up  a  conversation  with  his  companion  with- 
out much  difhoulty.  Miss  Winter  was  pleased  with  his  quiet 
deferential  manner,  and  soon  lost  her  feeling  of  shyness  ;  and, 
before  Hardy  had  come  to  the  end  of  such  remarks  as  it 
occurred  to  him  to  make,  she  was  taking  her  fair  share  in 
the  talk.  In  describing  their  day's  doings  she  spoke  Avith 
enthusiasm  of  the  beauty  of  Llagdalen  Chapel,  and  betrayed 
a  little  knowledge  of  tiaceries  and  mouldings,  which  gave  an 
opening  to  her  companion  to  travel  out  of  the  weather  and 
the  names  of  colleges.  Church  architecture  was  just  one  of 
the  subjects  which  was  sure  at  that  time  to  take  more  or  less 
hold  on  every  man  at  Oxford  whose  mind  was  open  to  the 
influences  of  the  place.  Hardy  had  read  the  usual  text- 
books, and  kept  his  eyes  open  as  he  walked  about  the  town 
and  neighbourhood.  To  Miss  Winter  he  seemed  so  learned 
on  the  subject,  that  she  began  to  doabt  his  tendencies,  and 
was  glad  to  be  reassured  by  some  remarks  which  fell  from 
him  as  to  the  University  sermon  which  she  had  heard. 
She  was  glad  to  find  that  her  cousin's  most  intimate  friend 
was  not  likely  to  lead  liim  into  the  errors  of  Tractarianism. 

Meantime  the  leading  couple  were  getting  on  satisfactorily 
in  their  own  way. 

"  Isn't  it  good  of  Uncle  Eobert  1  he  says  that  he  shall  fee- 
quite  comfortable  as  long  as  you  and  Katie  are  with  me.  In 
fact,  I  feel  quite  responsible  already,  like  an  old  dragon  in  a 
story-book  watching  a  treasure." 

"  Yes,  but  what  does  Katie  say  to  being  made  a  treasure 
of?  She  has  to  think  a  good  deal  for  herself;  and  I  am 
afraid  you  are  not  quite  certain  of  being  our  sole  knight  and 
guardian  because  Uncle  Eobert  wants  to  get  rid  of  us.  Poov 
old  uncle !" 


284  TOM  BROWN    AT   OXFORD. 

"  But  you  Avouldn't  object,  then  ? " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no — at  least,  not  unless  you  take  to  looking  as 
cross  as  you  did  just  now  in  our  lodgings.  Of  course,  I'm  all 
for  dragons  who  are  mad  about  dancing,  and  never  think  of 
leaving  a  ball-room  till  the  band  packs  up  and  the  old  man 
shufiles  in  to  put  out  the  lights." 

"  Then  1  shall  be  a  model  dragon,"  said  Tom.  Twenty- 
four  hours  earlier  he  had  declared  that  nothing  should  induce 
liim  to  go  to  the  balls ;  but  his  Aiews  on  the  subject  had 
been  greatly  modified,  and  he  had  been  worrymg  all  his 
acquaintance,  not  unsuccessfully,  foi'  the  necessary  tickets, 
ever  since  his  talk  with  his  cousins  on  the  preceding  evening. 

The  scene  became  more  and  more  gay  and  lively  as  they 
passed  out  of  Christchurch  towards  the  Long  "Walk.  The 
town  turned  out  to  take  its  share  in  the  show ;  and  citizens 
of  all  ranks,  the  poorer  ones  accompanied  by  children  of  all 
ages,  trooped  along  cheek  by  jowl  with  members  of  the 
University,  of  all  degrees,  and  their  visitors,  somewhat  mdeed 
to  the  disgust  of  certain  of  these  latter,  many  of  whom 
declared  that  the  whole  thing  was  spoilt  by  the  miscellaneous- 
ness  of  the  crowd,  and  that  "those  sort  of  people"  ought  not 
to  be  allowed  to  come  to  the  Long  AYalk  on  Show  Sunday. 
However,  '•  those  sort  of  people "  abounded  nevertheless,  and 
seemed  to  enjoy  very  much,  in  sober  fashion,  the  solemn 
march  up  and  down  beneath  the  grand  avenue  of  elms  in  the 
midst  of  their  betters. 

The  University  was  there  in  strength,  from  the  Vice- 
Chancellor  downwards.  Somehow  or  another,  though  it  might 
seem  an  unreasonable  thing  at  first  sight  for  grave  and 
reverend  persons  to  do,  yet  most  of  the  gravest  of  them  found 
some  reason  for  taking  a  turn  in  the  Long  Walk.  As  for  the 
undergraduates,  they  turned  out  almost  to  a  man,  and  none  of 
them  more  certainly  than  the  young  gentlemen,  elaborately 
dressed,  who  had  sneered  at  the  whole  ceremony  as  snobbish 
an  hour  or  two  before. 

As  for  our  hero,  he  sailed  into  the  meadows  thoroughly 
satisfied  for  the  moment  with  himself  and  his  convoy.  He 
had  every  reason  to  be  so,  for  though  there  were  many  gayer 
and  more  fashionably  dressed  ladies  present  than  his  cousin, 
and  cousin  by  courtesy,  there  were  none  there  whose  faces, 
figures,  and  dresses  carried  more  unmistal\ably  the  marks  of 
that  thorough  quiet  high  breeding,  that  refinement  which  is 
no  mere  surface  polish,  and  that  fearless  unconsciousness 
which  looks  out  from  pure  hearts,  which  are  still,  thank  God, 
to  be  found  in  so  many  homes  of  the  English  gentry. 

The  Long  Walk  was  filling  rapidly,  and  at  every  half-dozen 


THE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHRISTCHUECH  MEADOWS.      285 

paces  Tom  was  greeted  by  some  of  his  friends  or  acquaiDtance, 
and  excliauged  a  word  or  two  with  them.  But  he  allowed 
them  one  after  another  to  pass  by  without  effecting  any 
introduction. 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  great  many  acquaintances,"  said  his 
companion,  upon  whom  none  of  these  salutations  were 
lost. 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  one  gets  to  know  a  gieat  many  men  up 
here." 

"  It  must  be  very  pleasant.  But  does  it  not  interfere  a 
great  deal  with  your  reading?" 

"  'No  ;  because  one  meets  them  at  lectures,  and  in  hall  and 
3hap'jl.  Besides,"  he  added  in  a  sudden  fit  of  honesty,  "  it  is 
my  first  year.  One  doesn't  read  much  in  one's  first  year.  It 
is  a  much  harder  thing  than  people  think  to  take  to  reading, 
except  just  before  an  examination." 

"  But  your  great  friend  who  is  walking  with  Katie — what 
did  you  say  his  name  is  ?" 

"  Hardy." 

"  Well,  he  is  a  great  scholar,  didn't  you  say  1" 

"Yes,  he  has  just  taken  a  first  class.  He  is  the  be^t  man 
of  his  year." 

"  How  proud  you  must  be  of  him  !  I  suppose,  now,  he  is  a 
great  reader  1 " 

"  Yes,  he  is  great  at  everything.  He  is  nearly  the  best 
oar  in  our  boat,  i'y  the  way,  you  will  come  to  the  procession 
of  boats  to-morrow  nigiit  1  Y/e  are  the  head  boat  on  the 
river." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so.  Is  it  a  pretty  sight  ?  Let  us  ask  Katie 
ibout  it." 

"  It  is  the  finest  sight  in  the  world,"  said  Tom,  who  had 
never  seen  it ;  "  twenty-four  eight  oars,  with  their  flags 
flying,  and  all  the  crews  in  uniform.  You  see  the  barges  over 
there,  moored  along  the  side  of  the  river  ?  You  will  sit  on 
one  of  them  as  we  pass." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do,"  said  Mary,  looking  across  the  meado"\v 
in  the  direction  in  which  he  pointed  ;  "  you  mean  those  great 
gilded  things.     But  I  don't  see  the  river." 

"  Shall  we  walk  round  there  1  It  won't  take  us  ten 
minutes." 

"  But  we  must  not  leave  the  Walk  and  all  the  people.  It 
is  so  amusing  here." 

"Then  you  will  wear  our  colours  at  the  procession  to- 
morrow?" 

"  Yes,  if  Katie  doesn't  mind.  At  least  if  they  are  pretty 
What  are  your  colours  V 


286  TOM   BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

"  Blue  and  white.  I  will  get  you  some  ribbons  to-molTO\^ 
morning." 

"  Very  well,  and  I  will  make  tliem  up  into  rosettes." 

"Why,  do  you  know  them  ?"  asked  Tom,  as  she  bowed  to 
two  gentlemen  in  masters'  caps  and  gowns,  whom  they  met  in 
the  crowd. 

"  Yes  ;  at  least  we  met  them  last  night." 

"  But  do  you  know  who  they  are  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  ;  they  were  introduced  to  us,  and  I  talked  a  great 
deal  to  them.  And  Katie  scolded  me  for  it  when  we  got 
home.  No  ;  I  won't  say  scolded  me,  but  looked  very  grave 
over  it." 

"  They  are  two  of  the  leaders  of  the  Tractarians." 

"  Yes.  That  was  the  fun  of  it.  Katie  was  so  pleased  and 
interested  with  them  at  first ;  much  more  than  I  was.  But 
when  she  found  out  v/ho  they  were  she  fairly  ran  away,  and 
I  stayed  and  talked  on.  I  don't  think  they  said  anything 
very  dangerous.  Perhaps  one  of  them  wrote  No.  90.  Uo 
you  know  ]" 

"  I  dare  say.  But  I  don't  know  much  about  it.  However, 
they  must  have  a  bad  time  of  it,  I  should  think,  up  here  with 
the  old  dons." 

"  But  don't  you  think  one  likes  people  who  are  persecuted  1 
I  declare  I  would  listen  to  them  for  an  hour,  though  I  didn't 
understand  a  word,  just  to  show  them  that  I  wasn't  afraid  of 
them,  and  sympathized  with  them.  How  can  people  be  so 
ill-natured  ?  I'm  sure  they  only  write  what  they  believe  and 
think  will  do  good." 

"  That's  just  what  most  of  us  feel,"  said  Tom  ;  "  we  hate  to 
see  them  put  down  because  they  don't  agree  with  the  swells 
up  here.     You'll  see  how  they  will  be  cheered  in  the  Theatre." 

"  Then  they  are  not  unpopular  and  persecuted  after  all  1 " 

"  Oh  yes,  by  the  dons.  And  that's  why  we  all  like  them. 
From  fellow-feeling  you  see,  because  the  dons  bully  them  and 
us  equally." 

"  But  I  thought  they  were  dons  too  1 " 

"  Well,  so  they  are,  but  not  regular  dons,  you  know,  hke 
the  proctors,  and  deans,  and  that  sort." 

His  companion  did  not  understand  this  delicate  distinction, 
but  was  too  much  interested  in  watching  the  crowd  to  inquire 
further. 

Presently  they  met  two  of  the  heads  of  houses  walking  with 
several  strangers.  Every  one  was  noticing  them  as  they 
pa-ssed,  and  of  course  Tom  was  questioned  as  to  who  they 
were.  Not  being  prepared  with  an  answer  he  appealed  to 
Hardy,  who  was  just  behind  them  talking  to  Miss  Winter, 


THE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHRISTCHUECH  MEADOWS.      287 

Thty  wore  some  of  the  celebrities  on  whom  honorary  degrees 
were  to  be  conferred,  Hardy  said  ;  a  famous  American  author, 
a  foreign  ambassador,  a  well-known  Indian  soldier,  and  others. 
Then  came  gome  more  M.A.'s,  one  of  whom  this  time  bowed 
to  ]\Tiss  Winter. 

"  Who  was  that,  Katie  1 " 

"  One  of  the  gentlemen  we  met  last  night.  I  did  not  catch 
his  name,  but  he  was  very  agreeable." 

"  Oh,  I  remember.  You  were  talking  to  him  for  a  long 
time  after  you  ran  away  from  me,  I  was  very  curious  to 
know  what  you  were  saying,  you  seemed  so  interested." 

"  Well,  you  seem  to  have  made  the  most  of  your  time 
last  night,"  said  Tom ;  "  I  should  have  thought^  Katie,  you 
would  hardly  have  approved  of  him  either." 

"  But  who  is  he  1 " 

"  Why,  the  most  dangerous  man  in  Oxford.  What  do  they 
call  him — a  Germanizer  and  a  rationalist,  isn't  it,  Hardy  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so,"  said  Hardy. 

"  Oh,  think  of  that !  There,  Katie  ;  you  had  much  better 
have  stayed  by  me  after  all.  A  Germanizer,  didn't  you  say  1 
What  a  hard  word.  It  must  be  much  worse  than  Tractarian. 
Isn't  it,  now  1 " 

"  Mary  dear,  pray  take  care  ;  everybody  will  hear  you,"  said 
Miss  Winter. 

"  I  wish  I  thought  that  everybody  would  listen  to  me,'" 
replied  Miss  Mary.  "  But  I  leally  will  be  very  qiiiet,  Katie, 
— only  I  must  know  which  is  the  worst,  my  Tractarians  or 
your  Germanizer  1 " 

"  Oh,  the  Germanizer,  of  course,"  said  Tom. 

"  But  why  1 "  said  Hardy,  who  could  do  no  less  than  break 
a  lance  for  his  companion.  Moreover  he  happened  to  have 
strong  convictions  on  these  subjects. 

"  Why  1  Because  one  knows  the  worst  of  where  the  Trac- 
tarians are  going.  They  may  go  to  Rome  and  there's  an  end 
cf  it.  But  the  Germanizers  are  going  into  the  abysses,  or  no 
one  knows  where." 

"  There,  Katie,  you  hear,  I  hope,"  interrupted  Miss  Mary 
coming  to  her  companion's  rescue  before  Hardy  could  bring 
his  artillery  to  bear,  "  but  what  a  terrible  place  Oxford  must 
be.  I  declare  it  seems  quite  full  of  people  whom  it  is  unsafe 
to  talk  with." 

"  I  wish  it  were,  if  they  were  all  like  Miss  Winter's  friend,'' 
said  Hardy.  And  then  the  crowd  tliickened  and  they  dropped 
behind  again.  Tom  was  getting  to  think  more  of  his  com- 
panion and  less  of  himself  every  minute,  when  he  was 
suddenly  confronted  in  the  walk  by  Benjamin,  the  Jew  money- 


288  TOM  BEOWN  AT   OXFORD. 

lender,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  dressed  in  a  gandy  figi;red  satin 
waistcoat  and  waterfall  of  the  same  material,  and  resplendent 
with  jewellery.  He  Iiad  business  to  attend  to  in  Oxford  at 
this  time  of  the  year.  N"othing  escaped  the  eyes  of  Tom's 
companion. 

"  Who  was  that  ? "  she  said  ;  "  what  a  dreadful-looking 
man  !     Surely  he  bowed  as  if  he  knew  yon  ? " 

"  I  dare  say.  He  is  impudent  enough  for  anything,"  said 
Tom. 

"  But  who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  rascally  fellow  who  sells  bad  cigars  and  worse  wine." 

Tom's  equanimity  was  much  shaken  by  the  apparition  of 
the  Jew.  The  remembrance  of  the  biU  scene  at  the  public 
house  in  the  Corn-market,  and  the  unsatisfactory  prospect  in 
that  matter,  with  Blake  plucked  and  Drysdale  no  longer  a 
member  of  the  University,  and  utterly  careless  as  to  his 
liabilities,  came  across  him,  and  made  him  silent  and  absent. 

He  answered  at  hazard  to  his  companion's  remarks  for 
the  next  minute  or  two,  until,  after  some  particularly  inap- 
propriate reply,  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him  for  a 
moment  with  steady  wide  open  eyes,  which  brought  him  to 
himself,  or  rather  drove  him  into  himself,  in  no  time. 

"  I  really  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  ;  "  I  was  very  rude,  J 
fear.  It  is  so  strange  to  me  to  be  walking  here  with  ladies. 
What  were  you  saying  ?  " 

"Nothing  of  any  consequence--!  really  forget.  Bnt  is  it 
a  very  strange  thmg  for  you  to  walk  with  ladies  here  ?" 

"  Strange  !  I  should  think  it  was  !  I  have  never  seen  a 
lady  that  1  knew  up  here,  till  you  came." 

"  Indeed !  but  there  must  be  plenty  of  ladies  living  in 
Oxford  1 " 

"  1  don't  believe  there  are.     At  least,  we  never  see  them." 

"  Then  you  ought  to  be  on  your  best  behaviour  when  we 
do  come.  I  shall  expect  you  now  to  listen  to  eveiything 
I  say,  and  to  answer  my  silliest  questions." 

"  Oh,  you  ought  not  to  be  so  hard  on  us." 

"You  mean  that  you  find  it  hard  to  answer  silly  questions  ? 
How  Avise  you  must  all  grow,  living  up  here  together  !  " 

"  Perhaps.  But  the  wisdom  doesn't  come  down  to  the 
first-year  men  ;  and  so — " 

"  Well,  why  do  you  stop  1 " 

"  Because  T  was  going  to  say  something  you  might  not 
like." 

"Then  T  insist  on  hearing  it.  I^ow,  I  shall  not  let  you  off. 
Yon  were  saying  that  wisdom  does  not  come  so  low  as  first 
year  men  :  and  so — what  1 " 


THE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHRISTOHURCH  MEADOWS.      289 

"  And  so — and  so,  they  are  not  wise." 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  but  that  was  not  what  you  were  going  to 
Bay  ;  and  so — " 

"  And  so  they  are  generally  agreeable,  for  wise  people  are 
always  dull  ;  and  so — ladies  ought  to  avoid  the  dons.'" 

"  And  not  avoid  first-year  men  ? " 

"  Exactly  so." 

"  Because  they  are  foolish,  and  therefore  fit  company  for 
ladies.     Kow,  really — " 

"  No,  no  ;  because  they  are  foolish,  and,  therefore,  they 
ought  to  be  made  wise  ;  and  ladies  are  wiser  than  dons." 

"  And  therefore,  duller,  for  all  wise  people,  you  said,  were 
dull." 

"  Not  all  wise  people  ;  only  people  who  are  wise  by  cram- 
ming,— as  dons  ;  but  ladies  are  wise  by  inspiration." 

"  And  first-year  men,  are  they  foolish  by  inspiration  and 
agreeable  by  cramming,  or  agreeable  by  iuspiration  and  foolish 
by  cramming  1" 

"  They  are  agreeable  by  inspiration  in  the  society  of  ladies." 

"  Then  they  can  never  be  agreeable,  for  you  say  they  never 
see  ladies." 

"  Not  with  the  bodily  eye,  but  with  the  eye  of  fancy." 

"Then  theii-  agreeableness  must  be  all  fancy." 

"  But  it  is  better  to  be  agreeable  in  fancy  than  dull  in 
reality." 

"  That  depends  upon  whose  fancy  it  is.  To  be  agreeable 
in  your  own  fancy  is  compatible  with  being  as  dull  in  reality 
as — 

"  How  you  play  with  words  !  I  see  you  won't  leave  me 
a  shred  either  of  fancy  or  agreeableness  to  stand  on." 

"  Then  I  shall  do  you  good  service,  I  shall  destroy  your 
illusions  ;  you  cannot  stand  on  illusions." 

"  But  remember  what  my  illusions  were — fancy  and  agree- 
ableness." 

"  But  your  agreeableness  stood  on  fancy,  and  your  fancy  on 
nothing.  You  had  better  settle  down  at  once  on  the  solid 
basis  of  dulness,  like  the  dons." 

"  Then  I  am  to  found  myself  on  fact,  and  try  to  be  dull  ? 
What  a  conclusion  !  But  perhaps  dulness  is  no  more  a  fact 
than  fancy  ;  what  is  dulness  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  undertake  to  define  ;  you  are  the  best 
judge." 

"  How  severe  you  are  !  Now,  see  how  generous  1  ara. 
Dulness  in  society  is  the  absence  of  ladies." 

"  Alas,  poor  Oxford  !  Who  is  that  in  the  velvet  sleeves  ? 
Why  do  you  touch  your  cap  t " 

J} 


2 'JO  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"  That  Is  tbo  Proctor.  He  is  our  Cerberus  ;  he  has  tc 
keep  all  undergraduates  in  good  ord(3r." 

"  What  a  task  !     He  ouglit  to  have  three  heads." 

"  Ho  has  only  one  head,  but  it  is  a  very  long  one.  And  he 
has  a  tail  like  any  Easba,  com[)osed  of  pro-proctors,  marshals, 
and  bull-dogs,  and  I  don't  know  what  ail.  But  to  go  back 
to  what  we  were  saying — " 

"No,  don't  let  us  go  back.  I'm  tired  of  it;  besides  ynu 
were  just  beginning  about  dulness.  llow  can  you  expect  me 
to  listen  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  do  listen,  just  for  two  minutes.  Will  you  bo 
serious  1  I  do  want  to  know  what  you  really  think  when 
you  hear  the  case." 

"  \Vell,  I  will  try — for  two  minutes,  mind." 

U[)on  gainijig  which  i)ermissiou  Tom  went  off  into  an 
interesting  discourse  on  the  uniKituralness  of  men's  lives  at 
Oxford,  which  it  is  by  no  means  necessary  to  inllict  on 
readers. 

As  he  was  waxing  eloquent  and  sentimental,  he  chanced  to 
louk  from  his  companion's  face  for  a  moment  in  search  of  a 
simile,  when  his  eyes  alighted  on  that  virtuous  member  of 
society,  Dick,  the  factotum  of  "  The  Choughs,"  who  was 
taking  his  turn  in  the  Long  Walk  with  his  betters.  Dick's 
face  was  twisted  mto  an  uncomforLable  grin  :  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  Tom  and  his  comiianiun  ;  and  he  made  a  sort  of 
half  motion  towards  touching  his  hat,  but  couldn't  quite 
carry  it  through,  and  so  passed  by. 

"  Ah  !  ain't  he  a  going  of  it  again,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self;  "jest  like  'em  alL" 

Tnm  didn't  hear  the  words,  but  the  look  had  been  quite 
enough  for  him,  and  he  broke  off  short  in  his  si)eech,  and 
turned  his  head  away,  and,  after  two  or  three  Ilounderings 
which  Mary  seemed  not  to  notice;,  stopped  short,  and  let  Miss 
Winter  and  Hardy  join  them. 

"  It's  getting  dark,"  he  said,  as  they  came  up  ;  "  the  Walk 
i.^  thinning;  ought  we  not  to  be  going?  liemejuber,  I  am  in 
charge." 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  is  time." 

At  this  moment  the  great  Christclmrch  bell — Tom  by 
name — began  to  toll. 

"  Surely  that  can't  be  Tom  ? "  Jliss  Winter  said,  who  had 
lieard  the  one  hundi'ed  and  one  strokes  on  former  occasions. 

"  Indeed  it  is,  though." 

"  But  how  very  light  it  is." 

"  It  is  almo,st  tlae  longest  day  in  the  year,  and  tlierc  hasi>  t 
been  a  cloud  all  day." 


THE  LONG  WALK  IN  CIIRISTCHUltCH  MEADOWS.       291 

They  started  to  walk  home  all  together,  and  Tom  gradually 
recovered  himself,  but  left  the  labouring  oar  to  Hardy,  who 
did  his  work  very  well,  and  persuaded  the  ladies  to  go  on 
and  see  the  Eatolitfe  by  moonlight — the  only  time  to  see  it, 
as  he  said,  because  of  the  shadows — and  just  to  look  in  at 
the  old  quadrangle  of  St.  Ambrose. 

It  was  almost  ten  o'clock  when  they  stopped  at  the  lodgings 
in  High-street.  While  they  were  waiting  for  the  door  to  1>3 
opened,  Hardy  said — 

"  I  really  must  apologize,  IMiss  Winter,  to  you,  for  my 
intrusion  to-night.  I  hope  your  father  will  allow  me  to  call 
on  him." 

"  Oh  yes  !  pray  do ;  he  will  be  so  glad  to  see  any  friend  of 
my  cousin's." 

"  And  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  him  ;  or  to  you,  or  yonx 
sister — " 

"  My  sister!    Oh,  you  mean  ^Fary?    She  is  not  my  sister." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  I  hope  you  vvQl  let  me  know  if 
there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you." 

"  Indeed  we  will  Kow,  IMary,  papa  will  be  vv^orrjnng 
about  us."  And  so  the  young  ladiep  said  their  adieus  and 
disappeared. 

"  Surely  you  told  me  they  were  sisters,"  said  Hardy,  as  the 
two  walked  away  towards  college. 

"  No,  did  11     I  don't  remember." 

"  But  they  are  your  cousins  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  at  least  Katie  is.     Don't  you  like  her  t " 

"  Of  course  ;  one  can't  help  liking  her.  But  she  says  you 
have  not  met  for  two  years  or  more." 

"  No  more  we  have." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  have  seen  more  of  her  companion 
lately  ? " 

"  Well,  if  you  must  know,  I  never  saw  her  before  yester- 
day." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  took  me  in  thereto-night 
when  you  had  never  seen  one  of  the  young  ladies  before,  and 
the  other  not  for  two  years  !  Well,  upon  my  word,  Brown — " 

"  Now  don't  blow  me  up,  old  fellow,  to-night — please  don't. 
There,  I  give  in.  Don't  hit  a  fellow  when  he's  down,  I'm 
so  low."  Tom  spoke  in  such  a  deprecating  tone,  that  Hardy' i 
wrath  passed  away. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  "  he  said.  "  You  seemed  to 
be  full  of  talk.     I  was  envying  your  fluency,  I  know,  oftea" 

"  Talk  !  yes,  so  I  was.  But  didn't  you  see  Dick  in  the 
^Valk  ?     You  have  never  heard  anything  more  1" 

"  No  •  but  no  news  is  good  news." 
u  2 


292  TOM   BKCWN   AT   OXFORD, 

"  Hei;;ho  !  I'm  awfully  down.  I  want  to  talk  to  yoti. 
Let  me  come  up." 

"  Come  along  then."  And  so  tliey  disappeared  into 
Hardy's  lodgings. 

The  two  young  ladies,  meanwhile,  soothed  old  Mr.  Winter, 
who  had  eaten  and  drank  more  than  was  good  for  him,  ami 
was  naturally  put  out  thereby.  They  soon  managed  to  per- 
suade him  to  rotire,  and  then  followed  themselves — first  to 
^Marj^'s  I'oom,  where  that  young  lady  hurst  out  at  once,  "  What 
a  charming  place  it  is  !  Oh  !  didn't  you  enjoy  your  evening, 
Katie  1" 

"Yes;  hut  I  felt  a  little  awkward  without  a  chaperone. 
You  seemed  to  get  on  very  well  with  my  cousin.  You 
Boarcely  spoke  to  us  in  the  Long  AValk  till  just  before  we 
came  away.     What  were  you  talking  about  1 " 

Mary  burst  into  a  gay  laugh.  "  AH  sorts  of  nonsense,"  she, 
said.  "  I  don't  think  I  ever  talked  so  much  nonsense  in  my 
life.  I  hope  he  isn't  shocked.  I  don't  think  he  is.  But  I 
said  anything  that  came  into  my  head.  I  couldn't  help  it. 
You  don't  think  it  wrong  ? " 

"  Wrong,  dear  1  No  I'm  sure  you  could  say  nothing 
wrong." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  But,  Katie  dear,  I  know  there 
is  something  on  his  mind." 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  1 " 

"  Oh,  because  he  stopped  short  tAvice,  and  became  quite 
absent,  and  seemed  not  to  hear  anything  I  said." 

"  How  odd  !  I  never  knew  liim  do  so.  Did  you  see  any 
reason  for  it  ?  " 

"  No  ;  unless  it  was  two  men  we  passed  in  the  crowd.  One 
was  a  vulgar-looking  wretch,  who  was  smoking — a  fat  black 
tiling,  with  such  a  thick  nose,  covered  with  jewellery — " 

"  Not  his  nose,  dear  1 " 

"  No,  but  his  dress ;  and  the  other  was  a  homely,  dried-up 
little  man,  like  one  of  your  Englebourn  troubles.  I'm  sure 
there  is  some  mystery  about  them,  and  I  shall  find  it  out, 
11  ut  how  did  you  like  his  friend,  Katie  ? " 

"  Very  much  indeed.  I  was  rather  uncomfortable  at  walking 
BO  long  with  a  stranger.  But  he  was  very  pleasant,  and  is  so 
fond  of  Tom.     I  am  sure  he  is  a  very  good  friend  for  him." 

"  He  looks  a  good  man  ;  but  how  ugly  !  " 

"  Do  you  think  so  1  We  shall  have  a  hard  day  to-morrow. 
Good  night,  dear." 

"  Good  night,  Katie.  But  I  don't  feel  a  bit  sleepy."  And 
so  the  cousins  kissed  one  another,  and  Miss  Winter  went  to 
her  own  room. 


LECTURING   A.  LIONESS.  293 

GHAPTER    XXVII. 

LECTURING    A     LIONESS. 

The  evening  of  Show  Sunday  may  serve  as  a  fair  sample  of 
what  this  eventful  Commemoration  was  to  our  hero.  The 
constant  intercourse  with  ladies — with  such  ladies  as  IMiss 
Winter  and  Mary — young,  good-looking,  well  spoken,  and 
creditable  in  all  ways,  was  very  delightful,  and  the  more 
fascinating,  from  the  sudden  change  which  their  presence 
wrought  in  the  ordinary  mode  of  life  of  the  place.  They 
would  have  been  charming  in  any  room,  but  were  quite 
irresistible  in  his  den,  which  no  female  presence,  except  that 
of  liis  blowsy  old  bed-maker,  had  lightened  since  he  had  been 
in  possession.  All  the  associations  of  the  freshman's  rooms 
were  raised  at  once.  i^Hien  he  came  in  at  night  now,  he 
could  look  sentimentally  at  his  arm-chair  (christened  "  The 
Captain,"  after  Captain  Hardy),  on  which  Katie  had  sat  to 
make  breakfast ;  or  at  the  brass  peg  on  the  door,  on  which 
Mary  had  hung  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  after  displacing  his 
gown.  His  very  teacups  and  saucers,  which  were  ahead}-  a 
miscellaneous  set  of  several  different  jiatterns,  had  made  a 
move  almost  into  his  affections  ;  at  least,  the  two — one  brown 
one  blue — which  the  young  ladies  had  used.  A  human  interest 
belonged  to  them  now,  and  they  were  no  longer  mere  crockery. 
He  thought  of  buying  two  very  pretty  china  ones,  the  most 
expensive  he  could  find  in  Oxford,  and  getting  them  to  use 
these  for  the  first  time,  but  rejected  the  idea.  The  fine  new 
ones,  he  felt,  would  never  be  the  same  to  him.  They  had 
come  in  and  used  his  own  rubbish  ;  that  was  the  great  charm. 
If  he  had  been  going  to  give  them  cups,  no  material  would 
have  been  beautiful  enough ;  but  for  his  own  use  after  them, 
the  commoner  the  better.  The  material  was  nothing,  the 
association  everything.  It  is  marvellous  the  amount  of  healthy 
sentiment  of  which  a  naturally  soft-hearted  undergraduate  is 
capable  by  the  end  of  the  summer  term.  But  sentiment 
is  not  all  one-sided.  The  delights  which  spring  from  sudden 
intimacy  with  the  fairest  and  best  part  of  the  creation,  are  as 
far  above  those  of  the  ordinary,  unmitigated,  undergraduate 
life,  as  the  British  citizen  of  1860  is  above  the  rudimentary 
personage  in  prehistoric  times  from  whom  he  has  been  gradu- 
ally improved  up  to  his  present  state  of  enlightenment  and 
perfection.  But  each  state  has  also  its  own  troubles  as  well 
as  its  pleasures  ;  and,  though  the  former  are  a  price  which  no 
decent  fellow  would  boggle  at  for  a  moment,  it  is  useless  to 
pretend  that  paying  them  is  pleasant. 


21)4.  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFOED. 

Xo"w,  at  Commemoration,  as  elsewhere,  where  mon  do  con- 
gregate, if  your  hvly- visitors  are  not  pretty  or  agreeable  enongli 
to  make  your  friends  and  acquaintance  eager  to  know  them, 
and  to  cater  for  their  enjoyment,  and  try  in  all  ways  to  win 
tlioir  favour  and  cut  you  out,  you  have  the  satisfaction  at 
any  rate  of  keeping  them  to  yourself,  though  you  lose  the 
pleasures  which  arise  from  being  sought  after,  and  made 
much  of  for  their  sakes,  and  feeling  raised  above  the  ruck 
of  your  neighbours.  On  the  other  liand,  if  they  are  all  tliis, 
you  might  as  well  try  to  keep  the  sunshine  and  air  to  your- 
self. Universal  humaA  nature  rises  up  against  you ;  and 
besides,  they  will  not  stand  it  tliemselves.  And,  indeed, 
why  should  they]  Women,  to  be  very  attractive  to  all  sorts 
of  different  people,  must  have  great  readiness  of  sympathy, 
ISfany  have  it  naturally,  and  many  work  hard  in  acquiring  a 
good  imitation  of  it.  In  the  fii'st  case  it  is  against  the  nature 
of  such  persons  to  be  monopolized  for  more  than  a  very  sliort 
time  ;  in  the  second,  all  their  trouble  would  be  thrown  away 
if  they  allowed  themselves  to  be  monopolized.  Once  in  their 
lives,  indeed,  they  will  be,  and  ought  to  be,  and  that  monopoly 
lasts,  or  should  last,  for  ever ;  but  instead  of  destroying  in 
tliem  that  which  was  their  great  charm,  it  only  deepens  and 
widen.''  it,  and  the  sympathy  which  was  before  fitful,  and, 
]ierhaps,  wayward,  floAvs  on  in  a  calm  and  healthy  stream, 
lilessing  and  cheering  all  who  come  within  reach  of  its  ex- 
hilarating and  life-giving  waters. 

But  man  of  all  ages  is  a  selfish  animal,  and  unreasonable 
in  his  selfishness.  It  takes  every  one  of  us  in  turn  many  a 
shrewd  fall  in  our  wrestlings  with  the  world  to  convince  us 
that  we  are  not  to  have  everything  our  own  way.  We  are 
conscious  in  our  inmost  souls  that  man  is  the  rightful  lord 
of  creation ;  and,  starting  from  this  eternal  principle,  and 
ignoring,  each  man-child  of  us  in  turn,  the  qualifying  truth 
that  it  is  to  man  in  general,  including  women,  and  not  to 
Thomas  Brown  in  particular,  that  the  earth  has  been  given, 
we  set  about  asserting  our  kingships  each  in  his  o-\vn  way, 
and  proclaiming  ourselves  kings  from  our  own  little  ant-hills 
of  thrones.  And  then  come  the  strugglings  and  the  down- 
fallings,  and  some  of  us  learn  our  lesson,  and  some  learn  it 
not.  But  what  lesson  ?  That  we  have  been  dreaming  in  the 
golden  hours  when  the  vision  of  a  kingdom  rose  before  us  ? 
'i'hat  there  is  in  short  no  kingdom  at  all,  or  that,  if  there 
b?,  we  are  no  heirs  of  it  1 

No — I  take  it  that,  while  we  make  nothing  better  tlian 
that  out  of  our  lesson,  we  shall  have  to  go  on  spelling  at  it 
and  stumbling  over  it,  tlirough  all  the  days  of  our  life,  till 


LECTUKING   A    LIONESS.  2\)0 

w<'  make  our  last  stunilile,  ami  take  our  final  header  out  of 
this  riddle  of  a  world,  which  we  om^e  dreamed  we  were  to 
mile  over,  exclaiming  "  vauitas  vanitutum  "  to  the  end.  But 
man's  spirit  will  never  be  satisfied  without  a  kingdom,  and 
was  never  intended  to  be  satisfied  so  ;  and  a  wiser  than 
S'llomon  tells  us  da}'  by  day  that  our  kingdom  is  about  us 
licre,  and  that  we  may  rise  up  and  pass  in  when  we  will  at 
the  shining  gates  which  He  holds  open,  for  that  it  is  His, 
and  we  are  joint  heirs  of  it  with  Ilim. 

On  the  whole,  however,  making  allowances  for  all  draw- 
b;!i'ks,  those  Commemoration  days  were  the  pleasantest  days 
Tom  had  ever  known  at  Oxford.  lie  was  with  his  uncle  and 
ctiu.sins  early  and  late,  devising  all  sorts  of  pleasant  entertain- 
ments and  excursions  for  them,  introducing  all  the  pleasantest 
men  of  his  actiiiaintance,  and  taxing  all  the  resources  of  the 
college,  which  at  such  times  were  available  for  undergraduates 
as  well  as  their  betters,  to  minister  to  their  comfort  and 
enjoyment.  And  he  was  well  repaid.  There  was  something 
perfectly  new  to  the  ladies,  and  very  piquant,  in  the  life  and 
habits  of  the  place.  They  found  it  very  diverting  to  be 
receiving  in  Tom's  rooms,  presiding  over  his  breakfasts  and 
luncheons,  altering  the  position  of  his  furniture,  and  making 
the  jilace  look  as  pretty  as  circumstances  would  allow.  Then 
tjiere  was  pleasant  occui)ation  for  every  spare  hour,  and  the 
fetes  and  amusements  were  all  unlike  everything  but  theni- 
silves.  Of  course  the  ladies  at  once  became  enthusiastic  St. 
Ambrosians,  and  managed  in  sj)ite  of  all  distractions  to  find 
time  foi'  making  up  rosettes  and  bows  of  blue  and  white,  in 
•\\  liich  to  appear  at  the  procession  of  the  boats,  which  was 
the  great  event  of  the  ^fon<lay.  Fortunately,  Mr.  "\\'inter 
had  been  a  good  oar  in  his  day,  and  had  pulled  in  one  of  the 
fiist  four-oars  in  which  the  University  races  had  commenced 
some  thirty-five  years  before;  and  Tom,  who  had  set  his 
nnnd  on  managing  his  uncle,  worked  him  up  almost  into 
enthusiasm  and  forgetfulness  of  his  maladies,  so  that  ho 
raised  no  objection  to  a  five  o'clock  dinner,  and  an  adjourn- 
ment to  the  river  almost  immediately  afterwards.  Jervis, 
who  was  all-powerful  on  the  river,  at  Tom's  instigation  got  an 
arm-chair  for  him  in  the  best  part  of  the  University  barge, 
while  the  ladies,  after  walking  along  the  bank  with  Tom  and 
others  of  the  crew,  and  being  instructed  in  the  colours  of  the 
different  boats,  and  the  meaning  of  the  ceremony,  took  their 
places  in  the  front  row  on  the  top  of  the  barge,  beneath  the 
awning  and  the  flags,  and  looked  down  with  hundreds  of 
other  fair  strangers  on  the  scene,  which  certainly  inerited  all 
tiiat  Tom  had  said  of  it  on  faith. 


2l>H  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

The  barges  above  and  below  the  Uuiversity  barge,  wliich 
occupied  the  post  of  honour,  were  also  covered  with  ladies, 
and  Christchurch  Meadow  swarmed  with  gay  dresses  and  caps 
and  gowns.  On  the  opposite  side  the  bank  was  lined  with  a 
crowd  in  holiday  clothes,  and  the  punts  plied  across  without 
intermission  loaded  with  people,  till  the  groups  stretched 
away  do^\^l  the  towing  path  in  an  almost  continuous  line  to 
the  starting  place.  Then  one  after  another  the  racing-boats, 
all  pauited  and  polished  up  for  the  occasion,  with  the  college 
Hags  drooping  at  their  sterns,  put  out  and  passed  down  to 
their  stations,  and  the  bands  played,  and  the  sun  shone  his 
best.  And  theii  after  a  short  pause  of  expectation  the  distant 
bank  became  all  alive,  and  the  groups  all  turned  one  way,  and 
came  up  the  towing  path  again,  and  the  foremost  boat  with 
the  blue  and  white  flag  shot  through  the  Gut  and  came  up 
the  reach,  followed  by  another,  and  another,  and  another,  till 
they  were  tired  of  counting,  and  the  leaeling  boat  was  already 
close  to  them  before  the  last  had  come  within  sight.  And 
the  bands  played  up  all  togetlier,  and  the  crowd  on  both 
sides  cheered  as  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  spurted  from  the 
Cherwell,  and  took  the  place  of  honour  at  the  winning-post, 
opposite  the  University  barge,  and  close  under  where  they 
were  sitting. 

"  Oh,  look,  Katie  dear ;  here  they  are.  There's  Tom,  and 
Mr.  Hardy,  and  ISlr.  Jervis  ;"  and  Mary  waved  her  handker- 
chief and  clapped  her  bauds,  and  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  enthu- 
siasm, in  which  her  cousin  was  no  whit  behuid  her.  The 
gallant  crew  of  St.  Ambrose  were  by  no  means  imconscious 
of,  and  fully  appreciated,  the  compliment. 

Then  the  boats  passed  up  one  by  one  ;  and,  as  each  came 
opposite  to  the  St.  Ambrose  boat,  the  crews  tossed  their  oars 
and  cheered,  and  the  St.  Ambrose  crew  tossed  their  oars  and 
cheered  in  return  ;  and  the  whole  ceremony  went  off  in 
triumph,  notwithstanding  the  casualty  which  occurred  to  one 
of  the  torpids.  The  torpiils  being  hlled  with  the  refuse  of 
the  rowing  men — generally  awkward  or  very  young  oarsmen 
— hnd  some  difficidty  in  the  act  of  tossing ;  no  very  safe 
operation  for  an  unsteady  crew.  Accordingly,  the  torjjid  in 
question,  having  sustained  her  crew  gallantly  till  the  siduting 
point,  and  allowed  them  to  get  their  oars  fairly  into  the  air, 
proceeded  gravely  to  turn  over  on  her  side,  and  shoot  them 
out  into  the  stream. 

A  thrill  ran  along  the  top  of  the  barges,  and  a  little  scream 
or  two  might  have  been  heard  even  through  the  notes  o! 
Annie  Laurie,  which  were  fdling  the  air  at  the  moment ;  but 
iLie  band  placed  on,  and  the  crew  swani  ashore,  and  two  <ji 


LECTURING   A    LIONESS.  207 

tlie  punt-men  laid  hold  of  the  boat  and  collected  the  cars, 
and  nobody  seemed  to  think  anything  of  it. 

Katie  di-ew  a  long  breath. 

"  Are  they  all  out,  dear  1  "  she  said ;  "  can  you  see  1  I 
can  only  count  eight." 

"  Oh,  I  was  too  frightened  to  look.  Let  me  see ;  yes,  there 
are  nine ;  there's  one  by  himself,  the  little  man  pulling  the 
weeds  off  his  trousers." 

And  so  they  regained  their  equanmiity,  and  soon  after  left 
the  barge,  and  were  escorted  to  the  hall  of  St.  Ambrose  by 
the  crew,  who  gave  an  entertainment  there  to  celebrate  the 
occasion,  which  Mr.  Winter  was  induced  to  attend  and  pleased 
to  approve,  and  which  lasted  till  it  was  time  to  dress  for  the 
oail,  lor  which  a  proper  chaperone  had  been  providentially 
found.  And  so  they  passed  the  days  and  nights  of  Com- 
memoration. 

But  it  is  not  within  the  scope  of  this  work  to  chronicle  all 
their  doings — how,  notwithstanding  balls  at  night,  they  were 
up  to  chapel  in  the  morning,  and  attended  flower-shows  at 
"Worcester  and  musical  promenades  in  New  College,  and 
managed  to  get  down  the  river  for  a  pic-nic  at  Nuneham, 
besides  seeing  everything  that  was  worth  seeing  in  all  the 
colleges.  How  it  was  done,  no  man  can  tell ;  but  done  it 
Avas,  and  they  seemed  only  the  better  for  it  all.  They  were 
waiting  at  the  gates  of  the  Theatre  amongst  the  first,  tickets 
in  hand,  and  witnessed  the  whole  scene,  wondering  no  little 
at  the  strange  mixture  of  solemnity  and  licence,  the  rush  ami 
crowdmg  of  the  undergraduates  into  their  gallery,  and  their 
free  and  easy  way  of  taking  the  whole  proceedings  under 
their  patronage,  watching  every  movement  in  the  amphitheatre 
and  on  the  floor,  and  shouting  ajjproval  and  disapproval  of  the 
heads  of  their  republic  of  learning,  or  of  the  most  illustrious 
visitors,  or  cheering  with  equal  vigour,  the  ladies,  Her 
Majesty's  ministers,  or  the  prize  poems. 

It  is  a  strange  scene  certainlj',  and  has  probably  puzzled 
many  persons  besides  young  ladies.  One  can  well  flmcy  the 
astonishment  of  the  learned  foreigner,  for  instance,  when  he 
sees  the  head  of  the  University,  which  he  has  reverenced  at 
a  distance  from  his  youth  up,  rise  in  his  robes  in  solemn  con- 
vocation to  exercise  one  of  the  highest  of  University  functions, 
and  hears  his  sonorous  Latin  periods  interrupted  by  "  three 
cheers  for  the  ladies  in  pink  bonnets  ! "  or,  when  some  man  is 
introduced  for  an  honorary  degree,  whose  name  may  be  known 
throughout  the  civilized  world,  and  the  Vice-Chancellor, 
turning  to  his  compeers,  inquires,  "  Placetne  vobis,  domini 
doctores  1  placetne  vobis,  magistri  1 "  and  he  hears  the  voices 


298  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFOED. 

of  doctors  and  masters  drowned  in  contradictoiy  shouts  from 
the  yonng  demus  in  the  gallery,  "  Who  is  he  ? "  "  iS'on 
jilacet !  "  "  Placet  !  "  "  Why  does  he  carry  an  umbrella  1 " 
Tl  is  thorouglily  English,  and  that  is  just  all  that  need,  or 
indeed  can,  be  said  for  it  all  ;  but  not  one  in  a  hundred  of  us 
would  alter  it  if  we  could,  beyond  suppressing  some  of  the 
personalities,  which  of  late  years  have  gone  somewhat  too  far. 

After  the  Theatre  there  was  a  sumptuous  lunch  in  All 
Souls',  and  then  a  fete  in  St.  John's  Gardens.  Now,  at  the 
aforesaid  luncheon,  Tom's  feelings  had  been  severely  tried  ;  in 
fact,  the  little  troubles,  which,  as  has  been  before  hinted,  are 
incident  to  persons,  especially  young  men  in  liis  fortunate 
predicament,  had  here  come  to  a  head. 

He  was  separated  from  his  cousins  a  little  way.  Being  a 
guest,  and  not  an  important  one  in  the  eyes  of  the  All  Souls' 
fellows,  he  had  to  find  his  level,  which  was  very  much  below 
that  allotted  to  his  uncle  and  cousins.  In  short,  ho  felt  that 
they  were  taking  him  about,  instead  of  he  them — which 
change  of  position  was  in  itself  trying ;  and  Mary's  conduct 
fanned  his  slumbering  discontent  into  a  flame.  There  she 
was,  sitting  between  a  fellow  of  All  Souls',  who  was  a  collector 
of  pictures  and  an  authority  in  fine-art  matters,  and  the  Indian 
officer  who  had  been  so  recently  promoted  to  the  degree  of 
D.C.L.  in  the  Theatre.  There  she  sat,  so  absorbed  in  their 
conversation  that  she  did  not  even  hear  a  remark  which  he 
was  pleased  to  address  to  her. 

Whereupon  he  began  to  brood  on  his  ■^Tongs,  and  to  take 
umbrage  at  the  catholicity  of  her  enjoyment  and  enthusiasm. 
So  long  as  he  had  been  the  medium  through  which  she  was 
brought  in  contact  with  others,  he  had  been  well  enough 
content  that  they  should  amuse  and  interest  her  ;  but  it  was 
a  very  different  thing  now. 

So  he  watched  her  jealously,  and  raked  up  former  conver- 
sations, and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
remonstrate  with  her.  He  had  remarked,  too,  that  she  never 
could  talk  with  him  now  without  breaking  away  after  a  shori 
time  into  badinage.  Her  badinage  certainly  was  very  charming 
and  pleasant,  and  kept  him  on  the  stretch  ;  but  why  should 
she  not  let  him  be  serious  and  sentimental  when  he  pleased  ? 
She  did  not  break  out  in  this  manner  with  other  people.  So 
he  really  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  speak  to  her  on  the  subject 
— not  in  the  least  for  his  own  sake,  but  for  hers. 

Accordingly,  when  the  party  broke  up,  and  they  started 
for  the  fete  at  St.  John's,  he  resolved  to  carry  out  his  inten- 
tions. At  first  he  could  not  get  an  opportunity  while  they 
were  walking  about  on  the  beautiful  luwu  of  the  great  garden, 


LF.CTURTNO   A   LIONESS.  200 

seeing  and  being  seen,  and  listening  to  music,  and  looking 
at  choice  flowers.  But  soon  a  chance  offered.  She  stayed 
behind  the  rest  without  noticing  it,  to  examine  some  specially 
beautiful  plant,  and  he  was  by  her  side  in  a  moment,  and 
proposed  to  show  her  the  smaller  garden,  which  lies  beyond, 
to  which  she  innocently  consented  ;  and  they  were  soon  out 
of  the  crowd,  and  in  comparative  solitude. 

She  remarked  that  he  was  somewhat  silent  and  grave,  but 
thought  notliing  of  it,  and  chatted  on  as  usual,  remarking 
U])on  the  pleasant  company  she  had  been  in  at  luncheon. 

This  opened  the  way  for  Tom's  lecture. 

"IIow  easily  you  seem  to  get  interested  with  new  people!" 
he  began. 

"Do  11"  she  said.  "Well,  don't  you  think  it  very 
natural  1 " 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  a  blessing  if  people  would  always  say 
just  what  they  think  and  mean,  though  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  a  great  many  do,"  she  replied,  looking  at  him 
in  some  wonder,  and  not  quite  pleased  with  the  turn  thuigs 
were  taking. 

"  An}'  ladies,  do  you  think  ]  You  know  we  haven't  many 
opportunities  of  observing." 

"  Yes,  I  think  quite  as  many  ladies  as  men.  More,  indeed, 
as  far  as  my  small  experience  goes." 

"You  really  maintain  deliberately  that  you  have  met  people 
— men  and  women — who  can  talk  to  you  or  any  one  else  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  quite  honestly,  and  say  nothing  at  all 
wliich  they  don't  mean — nothing  for  the  sake  of  Hattery,  or 
effect,  for  instance  1 " 

"  Oh  dear  me,  5^es,  often." 

"  Who,  for  example  ]  " 

"Our  cousin  Katie.  Why  are  you  so  suspicious  and  mis- 
anthropical 1  There  is  your  friend  Mr.  Hardy  again ;  what 
do  you  say  to  him  ? " 

"  Well,  I  think  you  may  have  hit  on  an  exception.  But 
1  maintain  the  rule." 

"  You  look  as  if  I  ought  to  object.  But  I  sha'n't.  Tt  is 
no  business  of  mine  if  you  choose  to  believe  any  such  dis- 
agreeable thing  about  your  fellow-creaturea." 

"  I  don't  believe  anything  worse  about  them  than  I  do 
about  myself.     I  know  tliat  I  caji't  do  it." 

"  Well,  I  am  very  sorry  for  3'ou." 

"  But  I  don't  think  I  am  any  worse  than  my  neighbours.*' 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  do.     Who  are  your  neighbours  ? " 
"  Shall  I  include  you  in  the  number?" 
"  Oh,  by  all  means,  if  you  like." 


300  TOM   BROW'IT   AT   OXFORD. 

"  But  I  may  not  mean  that  yon  are  like  the  rest.  The 
man  who  fell  among  thieves,  you  know,  had  one  good  neigh- 
bour." 

"Now,  Cousin  Tom,"  she  said,  looking  up  with  sparkling 
eyes,  "  I  can't  return  the  compliment.  You  meant  to  make 
nie  feel  that  I  was  like  the  rest — at  least  like  what  you  say 
they  are.  You  know  you  did.  And  now  you  are  ju.st  turning 
round,  and  trying  to  slip  out  of  it  by  saying  what  you  don't 
mean." 

"  Well,  cousin  Mary,  perhaps  I  was.  At  any  rate,  I  was 
a  great  fool  for  my  pains.  I  might  have  known  by  this  time 
that  you  would  catch  me  out  fast  enougli." 

"  Perliaps  you  might.  I  didn't  challenge  you  to  set  up 
your  Palace  of  Truth.  But,  if  we  are  to  live  in  it,  you  are 
not  to  say  all  the  disagreeable  things  and  hear  uono  of 
them." 

"  I  hope  not,  if  they  must  be  disagreeable.  But  why 
should  they  be  ]  T  can't  see  why  you  and  I,  for  instance, 
sliould  not  say  exactly  what  we  are  thinking  to  one  another 
•without  being  disagreeable." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  you  made  a  happy  beginning  just 
now." 

"  But  I  am  sure  we  should  all  like  one  another  the  better 
foi'  speaking  the  truth." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  don't  admit  that  I  haven't  been  speaking  the 
truth." 

"  You  won't  understand  me.  Have  I  said  that  you  don't 
speak  the  truth  1 " 

"  Yes,  you  said  just  now  that  I  don't  say  what  I  think  and 
mean.  Well,  perhaps  you  didn't  exactly  say  that,  but  that  is 
what  you  meant." 

"  You  are  very  angry,  Cousin  Rfary.      Let  us  wait  till — " 
"  No,  no.     It  was  you  who  began,  and  I  will  not  let  you 
off  now." 

"  Very  well,  then.  I  did  mean  something  of  the  sort.  It 
is  better  to  tell  you  than  to  keep  it  to  myself" 

"  Yes,  and  now  tell  me  your  reasons,"  said  Mary,  look- 
ing down  and  biting  her  lip.  Tom  Avas  ready  to  bite  his 
tongue  off,  but  there  was  nothing  now  but  to  go  through 
with  it. 

"You  make  everybody  that  comes  near  you  think  that  you 
ai'e  deeply  interested  in  them  and  their  doings.  Poor  Grey 
believes  that  you  are  as  mad  as  he  is  about  rituals  and  rubrics. 
And  the  boating  men  declare  that  you  would  sooner  see  a  race 
than  go  to  the  best  ball  in  the  world.  And  you  listened  to 
the  Dean's  stale  old  stories  about  the  schools,  and  went  into 


LECTUKING   A    LIONESS.  301 

raptures  in  the  Bodleian  about  pictures  and  art  with   that 
felL)W  of  Allsouls'.     Even  our  old  butler  and  the  cooR — " 

Here  Mary,  despite  her  vexation,  after  a  severe  struggle  to 
control  it,  burst  into  a  laugh,  which  made  Tom  pause. 

"  Now  you  can't  say  that  I  am  not  really  fond  of  jellies," 
she  said. 

"  And  you  can't  say  that  I  have  said  anything  so  very 
disagreeable." 

"  Oh,  but  you  have,  though." 

"At  any  rate  I  have  made  you  laugh." 

"  But  you  didn't  mean  to  do  it.     Now,  go  on." 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  You  see  my  meaning,  or 
you  never  will." 

"  If  you  have  nothing  more  to  say,  yoii  should  not  have 
said  so  much,"  said  Mary.  "  You  wouldn't  have  me  rude  to 
all  the  people  I  meet,  and  I  can't  help  it  if  the  cook  thuiks  I 
am  a  glutton." 

"  But  you  could  help  letting  Grey  think  that  you  should 
like  to  go  and  see  his  night  schools." 

"  But  I  should  like  to  see  them  of  all  things." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  go  through  the  manu- 
scripts in  the  Bodleian  Avith  the  Dean.  I  heard  you  talking 
to  him  as  if  it  was  the  dearest  wish  of  your  heart,  and  making 
a  half  engagement  to  go  with  him  this  afternoon,  when  you 
know  that  you  are  tired  to  death  of  nim,  and  so  full  of  other 
engagements  that  you  don't  know  where  to  turn." 

Mary  began  to  bite  her  lips  again.  She  felt  half  inclii^ed 
to  cry,  and  half  inclined  to  get  up  and  box  his  ears.  How 
ever  she  did  neither,  but  looked  up  after  a  moment  or  two, 
and  said — 

"Well,  have  you  any  more  unkind  words  to  say?" 

"  Unkind,  Mary  1 " 

"  Yes,  they  are  unkind.  How  can  T  enjoy  anything  now 
when  I  shall  know  you  are  watching  me,  and  thinking  all 
sorts  of  harm  of  everything  I  say  and  do  ?  However,  it 
doesTi't  much  matter,  for  we  go  to-morrow  morning." 

"But  you  will  give  me  credit  at  least  for  meaning  you 
weU.' 

"  I  think  you  are  very  jealous  and  suspicious." 

"  You  don't  know  how  you  pain  me  when  you  say 
that." 

"  But  I  must  say  what  I  think." 

Mary  set  her  little  mouth,  and  looked  do^vn,  and  began 
tapping  her  boot  with  her  parasol.  There  was  an  awkward 
silence  while  Tom  considered  within  himself  whether  she 
was  uot  right,  and  whether,  after  all,  his  own  jealousy  had  not 


302  TOM   BllOWN    AT    OXFORD. 

been  the  cause  of  the  lecture  he  liad  beer  delivering,  much 
mure  than  any  unselfish  wish  for  Mary's  improvement. 

"  It  is  your  turn  now,"  he  said  presently,  leaning  forward 
with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  looking  hard  at  the  gravel. 
"  I  may  have  been  foolishly  jealous,  and  I  thank  you  for 
telling  me  so.  But  you  can  tell  me  a  great  deal  more  if  you 
will,  quite  as  good  for  me  to  hear." 

"  No,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  I  daresay  you  are  open  and 
true,  and  have  nothing  to  hide  or  disguise,  not  even  about 
either  of  the  men  we  met  vn  the  Long  Walk  on  Sunday." 

He  winced  at  this  random  shaft  as  if  he  had  been  stung, 
and  she  saw  that  it  had  gone  home,  and  repented  the  next 
rcoment.  The  silence  became  more  and  more  embarrassing. 
B_y  good  luck,  however,  their  party  suddenly  appeared  stroll- 
ing towards  tliem  from  the  large  garden. 

"  Here  are  Uncle  Robert  and  Katie,  and  all  of  them.  Let 
us  join  them." 

She  rose  up  and  he  with  her,  and  as  thoy  walked  towards 
the  rest  he  said  quickly  in  a  low  voice,  "  Will  you  forgive 
me  if  1  have  pained  you  1  1  was  very  seliLsh,  and  am  very 
surry." 

"  Oh  yes,  we  were  both  very  foob'sh,  but  we  won't  do 
it  ngain." 

"  Here  you  are  at  last.  We  have  been  looking  for  you 
everywhere,"  said  Miss  Wijitor,  as  they  came  up. 

"  I'm  sure  [  don't  know  how  we  missed  you.  We  came 
straight  from  the  music  tent  to  tliis  seat,  and  have  not  moved. 
We  knew  you  must  come  by  sooner  or  later." 

"  But  it  is  quite  out  of  the  way.  It  was  quite  by  chance 
that  we  came  round  here." 

"  Isn't  Uncle  Kobert  tired,  Katie  ?  "  said  Tom  ;  "  he  doesn't 
look  well  this  afternoon." 

Katie  instantly  turned  to  her  father,  and  ^Ir.  Winter 
declared  himself  to  he  much  fatigued.  So  they  wished  their 
hospitable  entertainers  good-bye,  and  Tom  hurried  off  and  got 
a  wheel  chair  for  liis  uncle,  and  walked  by  his  side  to  their 
lodgings.  The  young  ladies  walked  near  the  chau'  also,  ac- 
companied by  one  or  two  of  their  acquaintance  ;  in  fact  they 
could  not  move  without  an  escort.  But  Tom  never  once 
turned  his  head  for  a  glance  at  what  was  going  on,  and  talked 
steadily  on  to  his  uncle,  that  he  might  not  catch  a  stray  word 
of  what  the  rest  were  saying.  Despite  of  all  which  self- 
denial,  however,  he  was  quite  aware  somehow  when  he  made 
his  bow  at  the  door  that  Mary  had  been  very  silent  all  tho 
way  home. 

Mr.   Winter    retired  to  his    room    to    lie    down,  and    hia 


LECTUKING  A  LIONESS.  3U3 

daughter  and  niece  remaiued  in  the  sitting-room.  Mary  sat 
down  and  untied  her  bonnet,  but  did  not  burst  into  her  usual 
flood  of  comments  on  the  events  of  the  day.  Miss  Winter 
looked  at  her  and  said — 

"  You  look  tired,  dear,  and  over-excited." 

"  Oh  yes,  so  I  am.     I've  had  such  a  quarrel  with  Tom." 

"  A  quarrel — you're  not  serious  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  am,  though.  1  qiute  hated  him  for  five  minutes 
at  least." 

"  But  what  did  he  do  1 " 

"  Why,  he  taunted  me  with  being  too  civil  to  everybody, 
and  it  made  me  so  angry.  He  said  I  pretended  to  take  an 
interest  in  ever  so  many  things,  just  to  please  people,  when  I 
didn't  really  care  about  them.  And  it  isn't  true  now,  Katie, 
is  it  ?  " 

"  No,  dear.  He  never  could  have  said  that.  You  must 
have  misunderstood  him." 

"  There,  I  knew  you  would  say  so.  And  if  it  were  true, 
I'm  sure  it  isn't  wrong.  When  people  talk  to  you,  it  is  so 
easy  to  seem  pleased  and  interested  in  what  they  are  saying 
— and  then  they  like  you,  and  it  is  so  pleasant  to  be  liked. 
Now,  Katie,  do  you  ever  snajj  people's  noses  off,  or  tell  them 
you  think  them  very  foolish,  and  that  you  don't  care,  and 
that  what  they  are  saying  is  all  of  no  consequence  1  " 

"  I,  dear  ?  I  couldn't  do  it  to  save  my  life." 

"  Oh,  I  was  sure  you  couldn't.  And  he  may  say  what  he 
vitU,  but  I  am  quite  sure  he  would  not  have  been  pleased  if 
we  had  not  made  ourselves  pleasant  to  his  friends." 

"  Tliat's  quite  true.  He  has  told  me  himself  half  a  dozen 
times  how  delightid  he  was  to  see  you  so  popular." 

"  And  you  too,  Katie  1 " 

"  Oh  yes.  He  is  very  well  pleased  with  me.  But  it  is 
you  who  have  turned  all  the  heads  in  the  college,  IMary.  You 
are  Queen  of  St.  Ambrose  beyond  a  doubt  just  now." 

"  No,  no,  Katie ;  not  more  than  you  at  any  rate." 

"  I  say  yes,  yes,  Mary.  You  wiU  .always  be  ten  times  as 
popular  as  I ;  some  people  have  the  gift  of  it ;  I  wish  1  had. 
But  why  do  you  look  so  gi-ave  again  t" 

"  Why,  Katie,  don't  you  see  you  are  just  saying  over  again, 
only  in  a  diflorent  way,  what  your  provuking  cousin — 1  shall 
call  him  Mr.  BroA\Ti,  I  think,  in  futui-e — was  telHug  me  for 
my  good  in  St.  John's  gardens.  You  saw  how  long  we  were 
away  from  you  :  well,  he  was  lecturing  me  all  the  time,  only 
think  j  and  now  you  are  going  to  tell  it  me  all  over  again. 
But  go  on,  dear  ;  1  sha'n't  mind  anything  from  you." 

Sh.0  put  her  arm  round  her  cousin's  waist,  and  looked  u^; 


304  TOM   BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

playfully  into  her  face.  Miss  Winter  saw  at  once  that  no 
great  harm,  perhaps  some  good,  had  been  done  in  the  passage 
of  arms  between  her  relatives. 

"  You  made  it  all  up,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  before  we  found 

you." 

"  Only  just,  though.  He  begged  my  pardon  just  at  last, 
almost  in  a  whisper,  when  you  were  quite  close  to  us." 

"  And  you  granted  it  1  " 

"  Yes,  of  course :  but  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  not 
recall  it." 

"  I  was  sure  you  would  be  falling  out  before  long,  you  got 
on  so  fast.  But  he  isn't  quite  so  easy  to  turn  round  your 
finger  as  you  thought,  Mary." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Mary,  laughing  ;  "you  saw 
how  humble  he  looked  at  last,  and  what  good  order  he  was 
in." 

"  AYell,  dear,  it's  time  to  think  whether  we  shall  go  out 
again." 

"  Let  me  see  ;    there's  the  last  ball.     What  do  you  say  1 " 

"  Wliy,  I'm  afraid  poor  papa  is  too  tired  to  take  us,  and  I 
don't  know  with  whom  we  could  go.  We  ought  to  begin 
packing,  too,  I  think." 

"  Very  well     Let  us  have  tea  quietly  at  home." 

"  I  will  write  a  note  to  Tom  to  tell  him.  He  has  done  his 
best  for  us,  poor  fellow,  and  we  ought  to  consider  him  a 
little." 

"  Oh  yes,  and  ask  him  and  his  friend  Mr.  Hardy  to  tea,  as 
it  is  the  last  night." 

"  If  you  wish  it  I  should  be  very  glad ;  they  wUl  amuse 
papa." 

"  Certainly,  and  then  he  wUl  see  that  I  bear  him  no  malice. 
And  now  J  will  go  and  just  do  my  hair." 

"  Very  well  ;  and  we  will  pack  after  they  leave.  How 
strange  home  will  seem  after  all  this  gaiety." 

"  Yes  ;  we  scnm  to  have  been  here  a  mouth." 

"  I  do  hope  we  shall  find  all  quiet  at  Englebourn.  I  am 
always  afraid  of  some  trouble  there," 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

THE    END    OP   THE    FRESHMAn's     TEAR 

On  the  morning  after  Commemoration,  Oxford  was  in  a  bustle 
of  departure.  Tlie  play  had  been  played,  the  long  vaca- 
tion had  begun,  and   visitors  and  members  seemed  equally 


THF  KND  OF  THE  FKESIIMAN'S  VEAK,      305 

RTixious  to  be  off.  At  the  gates  of  the  colleges  gi-oups  of 
men  in  travelling  dresses  waited  for  the  coaches,  omnibuses, 
dog-carts,  and  aU  manner  of  vehicles,  which  were  to  carr)' 
them  to  the  Great  Western  railway  station  at  Steventon,  or 
elsewhere,  to  all  points  of  the  compass.  Porters  passed  in 
and  out  with  portmanteaus,  gun-cases,  and  baggage  of  all 
kinds,  which  they  piled  outside  the  gates,  or  carried  off  to 
"The  Mitre"  or  "The  Angel,"  under  the  vigorous  and  not 
too  courteous  orders  of  the  owners.  College  servants  flitted 
round  the  groups  to  take  last  instructions,  and,  if  so  might 
be,  to  extract  the  balances  of  extortionate  bills  out  of  their 
departing  masters.  Dog  fanciers  were  there  also,  holding 
terriers  ;  and  scouts  from  the  cricketing  grounds,  with  bats 
and  pads  under  their  arms ;  and  ostlers,  and  men  from  the 
boats,  all  on  the  same  errand  of  getting  the  last  shilling  out 
of  their  patrons — a  fawning,  obsequi(Jus  crowd  for  the  most 
part,  with  here  and  there  a  sturdy  liriton  who  felt  that  he  was 
only  there  for  his  due. 

Through  such  a  group,  at  the  gate  of  St.  Ambrose,  Tom  and 
Hardy  passed  soon  after  breakfast  time,  in  cap  and  gown, 
which  costume  excited  no  small  astonishment. 

"  Hullo,  Brown,  old  fellow  !  ain't  you  off  this  morning  1  " 

"  No,  I  shall  be  up  for  a  day  or  two  yet." 

"  Wish  you  joy.  I  wouldn't  be  staying  up  over  to-day  for 
eomething." 

"  But  you'll  be  at  Henley  to-morrow?"  said  Diogenes,  con- 
fidently, who  stood  at  the  gate  in  boating  coat  and  llannels, 
a  big  stick  and  knapsack,  waiting  for  a  companion,  with  whom 
he  was  going  to  walk  to  Henley. 

"And  at  Lord's  on  Friday,"  said  another.  "It  will  be  a 
famous  match.  Come  and  dine  somewhei'e  afterwards,  and 
go  to  the  Haymarket  with  us." 

"  You  know  the  Leander  are  to  be  at  Henley,"  put  in 
Diogenes ;  "  and  Cambridge  is  very  strong.  There  will 
bo  a  splendid  race  for  the  cup,  but  Jervis  thinks  we  are 
all  right." 

"  Bother  your  eternal  races  ;  haven't  we  had  enough  of 
them  ]  "  said  the  Londoner.  "  You  had  much  bettoi  come 
uj)  to  the  little  village  at  once.  Brown,  and  stay  there  while 
the  coin  lasts." 

"  If  I  get  away  at  all,  it  will  be  to  Henley,"  said  Tom. 

"Of  course,  I  knew  that,"  said  Diogenes,  triumphantly  ; 
"  our  boat  ought  to  be  on  for  the  ladies'  plate.  If  only  Jervis 
were  not  in  tiie  University  crew  !  1  thought  you  were  to  puJl 
at.  Henley,  Hardy  1  " 

"  I  was  asked  to  pull,  but  I  couldn't  manage  the  time  ■vWth 


306  TOM    BKOWN    AT    OXFOED. 

the  schools  coming  on,  and  when  the  examinations  were  ovpt 
it  was  too  late..  The  crew  were  picked  and  half  trained,  and 
none  of  them  have  broken  down." 

"  What !  every  one  of  them  stood  putting  through  the 
sieve  1  Tliey  must  be  a  rare  crew,  then,"  said  another. 

"  You're  right,"  said  Diogenes.  "  Oh,  here  you  are  at 
Jast,"  he  added,  as  anotlier  man  in  flannels  and  knapsack  came 
out  of  college.  "  Well,  good-bye  all,  and  a  jleasant  vacation  ; 
we  must  be  off,  if  we  are  to  be  in  time  to  see  our  crew  pull 
over  the  course  to-night  ; "  and  the  two  marched  oif  towards 
Magdalen  Bridge. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  remarked  a  fast  youth,  in  most  elaborate 
toilette,  looking  after  them,  "  fancy  two  fellows  grinding  otf 
to  Henley,  five  miles  an  hour,  in  this  sun,  wlien  they  might 
di-op  up  to  the  metropolis  by  train  in  half  the  time  1  Isn't  it 
marvellous  V 

*'  I  should  like  to  be  going  with  them,"  said  Tom. 
"  Well,    there's    no    accounting    for    tastes.      Here's   our 
coach." 

"  Good-bye,  then ;  "  and  Tom  shook  hands,  and,  leaving 
the  coach  to  get  packed  with  portmanteaus,  terriers,  and 
undergraduates,  he  and  Hardy  walked  off  towards  the  High- 
street. 

"  So  you're  not  going  to-day  1  "  Hardy  said. 
"No ;  two  or  three  of  my  old  schoolfellows  are  coming  up 
to  stand  for  scholarships,  and  I  must  be  here  to  receive  them. 
But  it's  very  unlucky  ;  I  should  have  liked  so  to  have  been 
at  Henley." 

"  Look,  their  carriage  is  already  at  the  door,"  said  Hardy, 
pointing  up  High-street,  into  which  they  now  turned.  There 
were  a  dozen  postchaises  and  carriages  loading  in  front  of  dif- 
ferent houses  in  the  stieet,  and  amongst  them  Mr.  Winter's 
old-fashioned  travelling  barouche. 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Tom  ;  "  that's  some  of  uncle's  fidgeti- 
ness ;  but  he  will  be  sui-e  to  dawdle  at  the  last.  Come 
along  in." 

"  Don't  you  think  I  had  better  stay  downstairs  1  It  may 
seem  intrusive." 

"  No,  come  along.  Why,  they  asked  you  to  come  and  see 
the  last  of  them  last  night,  didn't  they  1  " 

Hardy  did  not  require  any  further  urging  to  induce  him  tc 
follow  his  inclination ;  so  the  two  went  up  together.  Tlie 
breakfast  things  were  still  on  the  table,  at  which  sat  Miss 
Winter,  in  her  bonnet,  employed  in  examining  the  biU,  with 
the  assistance  of  Mary,  who  leant  over  her  shoulder.  Sbfl 
looked  up  as  they  entered. 


THF    END    OF   THE    FRESKMAN'S    YEAR.  307 

"  Oh  !  I'm  SO  glad  you  are  come.  Poor  Katie  is  so 
bothered,  and  I  can't  help  her.  Do  look  at  the  bill  j  is  it  all 
riglit  ? " 

"  Shall  I,  Katie  ?  " 

"Yes,  please  do.  I  don't  see  anything  to  object  to, 
except,  perhaps,  the  things  I  have  marked.  Do  you  think 
we  ought  to  be  charged  half  a  crown  a  day  for  the  kitchen 
fire  1  " 

"  Fire  in  June  !  and  you  have  never  dined  at  home  once  ?  '• 

"  No,  but  we  have  had  tea  several  times." 

"  It  is  a  regular  swindle,"  said  Tom,  taking  the  bill  and 
glancing  at  it.  "  Here,  Hardy,  come  and  help  me  cut  down 
this  precious  total." 

They  sat  down  to  the  bill,  the  ladies  willingly  giving  place. 
Mary  tripped  olf  to  the  glass  to  tie  her  bonnet. 

"  Now  that  is  all  right  !  "  she  said  merrily  ;  "  why  can't 
one  go  on  without  bills  or  horrid  money  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  why  can't  one  ?  "  said  Tom,  "  that  would  suit  most  of 
our  complaints.     But  where's  uncle  ;  has  he  seen  the  bill  ?  " 

"  No ;  papa  is  in  his  room  ;  he  must  not  be  worried,  or 
the  journey  will  be  too  much  for  him." 

Here  the  ladies'-maid  arrived,  with  a  message  that  her 
father  wished  to  see  Miss  Winter. 

"  Leave  yovir  money,  Katie,"  said  her  cousin  ;  "  this  is 
gentlemen's  business,  and  Tom  and  Mr.  Hardy  will  settle  it 
all  for  us,  I  am  sure." 

Tom  professed  his  entire  willingness  to  accept  the  charge, 
delighted  at  finding  himself  reinstated  in  his  office  of  pro- 
tector at  Mary's  suggestion.  Had  the  landlord  been  one  of 
his  own  tradesmen,  or  the  bill  his  own  bill,  he  might  not 
have  been  so  well  pleased,  but,  as  neither  of  these  was  the 
case,  and  he  had  Hardy  to  back  him,  he  went  into  the  matter 
with  much  vigour  and  discretion,  and  had  the  landlord  up, 
made  the  proper  deductions,  and  got  the  bill  settled  and 
receipted  in  a  few  minutes.  Tlien  he  and  Hardy  addressed 
themselves  to  getting  the  carriage  comfortably  packed,  and 
vied  with  one  another  in  settling  and  stowing  away  in  the 
most  convenient  places,  the  many  little  odds  and  ends  which 
naturally  accompany  young  ladies  and  invalids  on  their 
travels  ;  in  the  course  of  which  employment  he  managed  to 
snatch  a  few  words  here  and  there  with  Mary,  and  satisfied 
himself  that  she  bore  him  no  ill-vvill  for  the  events  of  thd 
previous  day. 

At  last  all  was  ready  for  the  start,  and  Tom  reported  tli 
fact  in  the  sitting-room.      "  Then  1  will  go  and  fetch  papa," 
said  Miss  Winter. 

x  -2. 


3u8  TOM   BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

Tom's  eyes  met  Mary's  at  the  moment.  He  gave  a  slight 
slirug  with  his  shoulders,  and  said,  as  the  door  closed  after  his 
cousin,  "  Eeally  I  have  no  patience  with  Uncle  Ivohert,  he 
leaves  poor  Katie  to  do  everything." 

"  Yes  ;  and  how  beautifully  she  does  it  all,  without  a  word 
or,  I  beheve,  a  thought  of  complaint !  I  could  never  be  so 
patient." 

"  I  think  it  is  a  pity.  If  Uncle  Robert  were  obliged  to 
exert  himself  it  wouhl  be  much  better  for  him.  Katie  is 
only  spoiling  him  and  wearing  herself  out." 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  easy  for  you  and  me  to  think  and  say  so. 
But  he  is  her  father  ;  and  then  he  is  really  an  invalid.  So 
she  goes  on  devoting  herself  to  him  more  and  more,  and  feels 
ghe  can  never  do  too  much  for  him." 

"But  if  she  believed  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  exert 
himself?  I'm  sure  it  is  the  truth.  Couldn't  you  try  to 
persuade  her  1" 

"No,  indeed;  it  would  only  worry  her,  and  be  so  cruel. 
But  then  I  am  not  used  to  give  advice/'  she  addeil,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  looking  demurely  at  her  gloves  ;  "  it  might 
do  good,  perhaps,  now,  if  you  were  to  speak  to  her." 

"  You  think  me  so  well  qualified,  I  suppose,  after  the 
specimen  you  had  yesterday  1  Thank  you  ;  I  have  had 
enough  of  lecturing  for  the  ])resent." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  really,  for  what  you  said 
to  me,"  said  Mary,  still  looking  at  her  gloves. 

The  subject  was  a  very  distasteful  one  to  Tom.  He  looked 
at  her  for  a  moment  to  see  whether  she  was  laughing  at  him, 
and  then  broke  it  olf  abruptly — 

"  1  hope  you  have  enjoyed  your  visit  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  so  very  much,  I  shall  think  of  it  all  the 
summer." 

"  Where  shall  you  be  all  the  summe?'? "  asked  Tom. 

"  Not  so  very  far  from  you.  I'apa  has  taken  a  house  only 
eight  miles  from  Englebourn,  and  Katie  says  you  live  within 
a  day's  drive  of  them." 

"  And  shall  you  be  there  all  the  vacation  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  we  hope  to  get  Katie  over  often.  Could  not 
you  come  and  meet  her  ]  it  would  be  so  pleasant." 

"  But  do  you  think  I  might  ?  I  don't  know  your  father 
or  mother." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  papa  and  mamma  are  very  kind,  and  will  ask 
anybody  I  like.      Besides,  you  are  a  cousin,  you  know." 

"  Only  up  at  Oxford,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Well  now,  you  will  see.  We  are  going  to  have  a  great 
archory  party  next  month,  and  you  shall  have  an  invitation," 


THE   END    OP   TIIE   FRESIIMAN'S    YEAli.  309 

Will  you  write  it  foi  me  yourself?" 

*'  Very  likely  ;  but  wliy  t " 

"  Don't  yod  think  I  shall  value  a  note  in  your  nand  moro 
than — " 

"  Nonsense  ;  now,  remember  your  lecture — Oh,  here  aio 
Uncle  Robert  and  Katie." 

Mr.  Winter  was  very  gracious,  and  thanked  Tom  for  all  liis 
attentions.  He  had  been  very  pleased,  he  said,  to  make  his 
nephew's  acquaintance  again  so  pleasantly,  and  hoped  ho 
would  come  and  pass  a  day  or  two  at  Englebourn  in  the 
vacation.  In  his  sad  state  of  health  he  could  not  do  much  to 
entertain  a  young  man,  but  he  coiUd  procure  him  some  good 
fishing  and  shooting  in  the  neighbourhood.  Tom  assured  his 
uncle  that  nothing  woidd  please  him  so  much  as  a  visit 
to  Englebourn.  Perhaps  the  remembrance  of  the  distance 
between  that  parish  and  the  place  where  Mary  was  to  spend 
the  summer  may  have  added  a  little  to  his  enthusiasm. 

"  I  should  have  liked  also  to  have  thanked  your  friend  for 
his  hospitality,"  Mr.  Winter  went  on.  "  I  understood  my 
daughter  to  say  he  was  here." 

"Yes,  he  was  here  just  now,"  said  Tom;  "he  must  be 
below,  I  think." 

"  What,  that  good  Mr.  Hardy  1 "  said  IMary,  who  was 
looking  out  of  the  window  ;  "  there  he  is  in  the  street.  He 
has  just  helped  Hopkins  into  the  rumble,  and  handed  her 
things  to  her  just  as  if  she  were  a  duchess.  She  lias 
been  so  cross  all  the  morning,  and  now  she  looks  quite 
gracious." 

"  Then  I  think,  papa,  we  had  better  start." 

"  Let  me  give  you  an  arm  down  stairs,  jancle,"  said  Tom, 
and  so  he  helped  his  uncle  down  to  the  carriage,  the  t\\"o 
young  ladies  following  behind,  and  the  landlord  standing  yn\h 
obsecjuious  bows  at  his  shop  door  and  looking  as  if  he  had 
never  made  an  overcharge  in  his  life. 

While  Mr.  Winter  was  making  his  acknowledgments  to 
Hardy,  and  being  helped  by  him  into  the  most  comfortable 
seat  in  the  carriage,  Tom  was  making  tender  adieus  to  the 
two  yomig  ladies  behind,  and  even  succeeded  in  keeping  a 
rose-bud  which  Mary  was  carrying,  when  they  took  their 
seats.  She  parted  from  it  half-laughingly,  and  the  post-boy 
cracked  his  whip  and  the  barouche  went  lumbering  along 
High-street.  Hardy  and  Tom  watched  it  until  it  turned  down 
St.  Aldate's  towards  Folly-bridge,  the  latter  waving  his  hand 
as  it  disappeared,  and  then  they  turned  and  strolled  slowly 
away  side  by  side  in  silence.  The  sight  of  all  the  other 
departures   increased  the    ujacomfurtable,  unsatisfied   feelii.,^ 


31U  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

whicli  that  of  his  own  relatives  had  already  produced  in  Tom^s 
mind. 

"  Well,  it  isn't  lively  stopping  up  here  when  everybody  is 
going,  is  it  1     What  is  one  to  do  1 " 

"  Oughtn't  you  to  be  lookiug  after  your  friends  who  are 
coining  up  to  try  for  the  scholarships  1 " 

"iyo,  they  won't  be  up  till  the  afternoon,  by  coach." 

"Shall  we  go  down  to  the  river,  then]" 

"  No,  it  Would  be  miserable.  Hullo,  look  here,  what's 
upl" 

The  cause  of  Tom's  astonishment  was  the  appearance  of 
the  usual  procession  of  university  beadles  carrying  silver- 
headed  maces,  and  escorting  the  Vice-Chancelior  towards 
St.  Mary's. 

"  Why,  the  bells  are  going  for  service  ;  there  must  be  a 
university  sermon.      Is  it  a  saint's  day  ]  " 

"  Where's  the  congregation  to  come  from  1  "WTiy,  half 
Oxford  is  off  by  this  time,  and  those  that  are  left  won't  want 
to  be  hearing  sermons." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  A  good  many  seem  to  be  going.  I 
wonder  who  is  to  preach." 

"  I  vote  we  go.     It  will  help  to  pass  the  time." 

Hardy  agreed,  and  they  followed  the  procession  and  went 
up  into  the  gallery  of  St.  Mary's.  There  was  a  very  fair 
congregation  in  the  body  of  the  church,  as  the  staffs  of  the 
colleges  had  not  yet  broken  up,  and  even  in  the  gallery  the 
undergraduates  mustered  in  some  force.  The  restless  feeling 
which  had  brought  our  hero  there  seemed  to  have  had  a  like 
effect  on  most  of  the  men  who  were  for  one  reason  or  another 
unable  to  start  on  that  day. 

Tom  looked  steadily  into  his  cap  during  the  bidding  prayer, 
and  sat  down  composedly  aft^erwards  ,  expecting  not  to  be 
much  interested  or  benefited,  but  comforted  with  the  assurance 
that  at  any  rate  it  would  be  almost  luncheon  time  before  he 
would  be  again  thrown  on  his  own  resources.  But  he  was 
mistaken  in  his  expectations,  and,  before  the  preacher  had 
been  speaking  for  three  minutes,  was  all  attention.  The 
sermon  was  upon  the  freedom  of  the  Gospel,  the  power  by 
wliich  it  bursts  all  bonds  and  lets  the  oppressed  go  free.  Its 
burthen  was,  "  Ye  shall  know  the  truth,  and  the  truth  shall 
make  you  free."  The  preacher  dwelt  on  many  sides  of  these 
words  ;  the  freedom  of  nations,  of  societies,  of  universities,  of 
the  conscience  of  each  individual  man,  were  each  glanced  at 
in  turn  ;  and  then,  reminding  his  hearers  of  the  end  of  the 
academical  year,  he  went  on — 

"  We  have  heard  it  said  in  the  troubles  and  toils  and 


THE  END  OF  THE  FRESHMAN'S  YEAK.      311 

tetuptations  of  the  world,^  '  Oh  that  I  could  begin  life  ovi^t 
agaiii  !  oh  that  I  could  fall  asleep,  and  wake  up  twelve,  six, 
three  months  hence,  and  find  my  difficulties  solved  !'  That 
which  we  may  vainly  wish  elsewhere,  by  a  happy  Providence 
is  furnished  to  us  by  the  natural  divisions  of  meeting  and 
parting  in  this  place.  To  every  one  of  us,  old  and  young,  the 
long  vacation  on  which  we  are  now  entering  gives  us  f 
breathing  space,  and  time  to  break  the  bonds  which  place 
and  circumstance  have  woven  roiuid  us  during  the  year  that 
is  past.  From  all  our  jietty  cares,  and  confusions,  and 
intrigues  ;  from  the  dust  and  clatter  of  tliis  huge  machinery 
amidst  which  we  labour  and  toil ;  from  whatever  cynical 
contempt  of  what  is  generous  and  devout ;  from  whatever 
fanciful  disregard  of  what  is  just  and  wise  ;  from  whatever 
gall  of  bitterness  is  secreted  in  our  best  motives  ;  from  what- 
ever bonds  of  unequal  dealing  in  which  we  have  entangled 
oiu'selves  or  others,  we  are  now  for  a  time  set  free.  We 
stand  on  the  edge  of  a  river  which  shall  for  a  time  at  least 
sweep  them  away  ;  that  ancient  river,  the  river  Kishon,  the 
river  of  fresh  thoughts,  and  fresh  scenes,  and  fresh  feelings, 
and  fresh  hopes  :  one  surely  amongst  the  blessed  means 
whereby  God's  free  and  loving  grace  works  out  our  deliverance, 
our  redemption  from  evil,  and  renews  the  strength  of  each 
succeeding  year,  so  that  '  we  may  mount  up  again  as  eagles, 
may  run  and  not  be  weary,  may  walk  and  not  faint.' 

"  And,  if  turnuig  to  the  younger  part  of  my  hearers,  I  may 
still  more  directly  apply  this  general  lesson  to  them.  Is  there 
no  one  who,  in  some  shape  or  other,  does  not  feel  the  bondage 
of  which  I  have  been  speaking  1  He  has  something  on  his 
conscience ;  he  has  something  on  his  mind  ;  extravagance, 
sin,  debt,  falsehood.  Every  morning  in.  the  first  few  minutes 
after  waking,  it  is  the  first  thought  that  occurs  to  him :  he 
d lives  it  away  in  the  day  ;  he  di'ives  it  off  by  recklessness, 
which  only  binds  it  more  and  more  closely  round  him.  Is 
there  any  one  who  has  ever  felt,  who  is  at  this  moment 
feeling,  this  grievous  burthen  1  What  is  the  deliverance  ? 
IIow  ohall  he  set  himself  free  1  In  what  special  way  does 
the  redemption  of  Christ,  the  free  grace  of  God,  present 
itself  to  him  ?  There  is  at  least  one  way,  clear  and  simple. 
He  knows  it  better  than  any  one  can  tell  him.  It  is  those 
same  words  which  I  used  with  another  purpose.     *  The  truth 

'  This  quotation  is  from  the  sermon  preached  by  Dr.  Stanley  before 
the  University,  on  Act  Sunday,  1859  (pnlilished  by  J.  H.  Parker,  of 
Oxford).  I  hope  that  the  distinguished  professor  whose  words  they 
are  will  pardon  the  liberty  I  liave  taken  in  quoting  them.  No  words 
of  my  own  could  have  given  so  vividly  wliat  I  wanted  to  say. 


ol2  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXI-'uKD. 

shall  make  him  freo.'  It  is  to  tell  the  truth  to  his  friend,  to 
liis  parent,  to  any  one,  whosoever  it  be,  from  whom  he  is  con- 
ceaUng  that  which  he  ought  to  make  known.  One  word  of 
spen,  frank  disclosiu-e — one  resolution  to  act  sincerely  and 
honestly  by  himself  and  others — one  ray  of  truth  let  into  that 
dark  corner  will  indeed  set  the  whole  man  free. 

"  Liheravl  aimuam  meam.  '  I  have  delivered  my  soul.' 
What  a  faithful  expression  is  this  of  the  relief,  the  deliverance 
effected  by  one  strong  effort  of  will  in  one  moment  of  time. 
'  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father,  and  will  say  unto  him, 
Father,  I  have  sinned  against  Heaven  and  before  thee,  and 
am  no  more  worthy  to  be  called  thy  son.'  So  we  heard  the 
prodigal's  confession  this  morning.  So  may  the  thought  well 
gpring  up  in  the  minds  of  any  who  in  the  course  of  this  last 
year  have  wandered  into  sin,  have  found  themselves  beset 
With  evil  habits  of  wicked  idleness,  of  wretched  self-intlulgenco. 
Kow  that  you  are  indeed  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  word 
about  to  rise  and  go  to  your  father,  now  that  you  will  be  able 
to  shake  off  the  bondage  of  bad  companionship,  now  that  the 
whole  length  of  this  long  absence  will  roll  between  you  and 
the  past — take  a  long  breath,  breake  off  the  yoke  of  your  sin, 
of  your  fault,  of  your  wrong  doing,  of  your  folly,  of  your  per- 
verseness,  of  your  pride,  of  your  vanity,  of  your  weakness; 
break  it  ofi'  by  truth,  break  it  off  by  one  stout  effort,  in  one 
steadfast  prayer  ;  break  it  oil'  by  mnocent  and  free  enjoyment ; 
break  it  off  by  honest  work.  Put  your  '  hand  to  the  nail  and 
your  right  hand  to  the  workman's  hammer : '  strike  through 
the  enemy  which  has  ensnared  you,  pierce  and  strike  him 
through  and  through.  However  powerful  he  seems,  '  at  your 
feet  he  will  bow,  he  will  fall,  he  will  lie  down  ;  at  your  feet 
he  will  bow  and  fall,  and  where  he  bows,  there  will  he 
rise  up  no  more.  So  let  all  thine  enemies  perish,  0  Lord  ; 
but  let  them  that  love  Thee  be  as  the  sun  when  he  goeth 
forth  in  his  might.'  " 

The  two  friends  separated  themselves  from  the  crowd  in  the 
porch  and  walked  away,  side  by  side,  towards  their  college. 

"  Well,  that  wasn't  a  bad  move  of  ours.  It  is  worth  some- 
thing to  hear  a  man  preach  that  sort  of  doctrine,"  said  Hardy. 

"  How  does  he  get  to  know  it  all  1 "  said  Tom,  meditatively. 

"All  what  1     I  don't  see  your  puzzle." 

"  Why,  all  sorts  of  things  that  are  in  a  fellow's  mind — 
what  he  thinks  about  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  foi 
instance." 

"  Pretty  much  like  the  rest  of  us,  I  take  it  :  by  looking  ni 
home.  You  don't  suppose  that  university  preachers  ai"e  unlike 
you  and  me." 


TITE    END    OF   TUE    FKESUMAN'S   YEAR.  313 

'"Well,  I  dou't  lainw.  Now  do  you  think  he  ever  liad 
nr.ything  on  his  mind  that  was  always  coming  up  and  plaguing 
him,  and  which  he  never  told  to  anyhody  1" 

"  Yes,  I  should  thmk  so  ;  most  of  us  must  have  had." 

"  Have  you  ?  " 

"  Ay,  often  and  often." 

"  And  you  think  his  remedy  the  right  one  1 " 

"  The  only  one.  jNIake  a  clean  breast  of  it  and  the  sting  is 
gone.  There's  a  great  deal  to  he  done  afterwards,  of  coui'se  ; 
but  there  can  be  no  question  about  step  No.  l." 

"  Did  you  ever  owe  a  hundred  jiounds  that  you  couldn't 
pay  1 "  said  Tom,  with  a  sudden  elfort ;  and  his  secret  had 
hardly  passed  his  lips  before  he  felt  a  relief  which  suTpriscd 
himself. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Hardy,  stopping  in  the  street, 
"  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  s])eaking  of  yourself  1 " 

"I  do,  though,"  said  Tom,  "and  it  has  been  on  my  mind 
ever  since  Easter  term,  and  has  spoilt  my  temper  and  every- 
thing— that  and  something  else  that  you  know  of  You 
must  have  seen  me  getting  more  and  more  ill-tempered,  I'm 
sure.  And  I  have  thought  of  it  the  fa-st  thing  in  the  morning 
and  the  last  thing  at  night ;  and  tried  to  drive  the  thought 
away  just  as  he  said  one  did  in  his  sermon.  By  Jove,  I 
thought  he  knew  all  about  it,  for  he  looked  right  at  me  just 
when  he  came  to  that  place." 

"  But,  Brown,  how  do  you  mean  you  owe  a  hundred 
pounds  1  You  haven't  read  much  certainly  ;  but  you  haven't 
hunted,  or  gambled,  or  tailored  much,  or  gone  into  any  other 
extravagant  folly.     You  must  be  dreaming." 

"  Am  I  though  1  Come  up  to  my  rooms  and  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it :  I  feel  better  aheady  Jiow  I've  let  it  out.  lU 
send  over  for  your  commons,  and  we'll  have  some  lunch." 

Hardy  followed  his  friend  in  much  trouble  of  mind,  con- 
sidering in  himself  whether  with  the  ramainder  of  his  savings 
he  could  not  make  up  the  sum  which  Tom  had  named. 
Fortunately  for  both  of  them  a  short  calculation  showed  him 
that  lie  could  not,  and  he  gave  up  the  idea  of  delivering  his 
friend  in  this  summary  manner  with  a  sigh.  He  remained 
closeted  with  Tom  for  an  hour,  and  then  came  out,  looking 
serious  stiU,  but  not  uncomfortable,  and  went  down  to  the 
river.  He  sculled  down  to  Sandiord,  bathed  in  the  lasher, 
and  returned  in  time  for  chapel.  lie  stayed  outside  after- 
wards, and  Tom  came  up  to  him  and  seized  his  arm. 

"  I've  done  it  old  fellow,"  he  said  ;  "  look  here  ;"  and  pro- 
duced a  letter.  Hardy  glanced  at  the  direction,  and  saw 
that  it  was  to  his  father 


314  TOM   BROWN   AT    OXFORD. 

"  Corae  along  and  post  it,"  said  Tom,  "  and  tlicn  I  shall 
feel  all  riglit." 

They  walked  off  quickly  to  the  post-office  and  dropped  the 
letter  into  the  box. 

"There,"  ho  said,  as  it  disappeared,  "  libcravi  animam 
meam.  I  owe  the  preacher  a  good  turn  for  that ;  I've  a  good 
mind  to  write  and  thank  hinu  Fancy  the  poor  old  governor's 
face  to-morrow  at  breakfast  !  " 

*'  Well,  you  seem  to  take  it  easy  enough  now,"  said  Hardy. 

"  I  can't  help  it.  I  tell  j'ou  I  haven't  felt  so  jolly  this  two 
months.  What  a  fool  I  was  not  to  have  done  it  before. 
i\ftcr  all,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  can  pay  it  myself,  at 
least  as  soon  as  I  am  of  age,  for  I  know  I've  some  money,  a 
legacy'  or  something,  coming  to  me  then.  But  that  isn't  what 
T  care  about  now." 

"  I'm  very  glad  though  that  you  have  the  money  of  your 
own." 

"  Yes,  but  the  having  told  it  is  all  the  comfort.  Come 
along,  and  let's  see  whether  these  boys  are  come.  The  old 
Pig  ought  to  be  in  by  this  time,  and  I  want  them  to  dine  in 
hall.  It's  only  ten  months  since  I  came  up  on  it  to  matricu- 
late, and  it  seems  twenty  years. .  But  I'm  going  to  be  a  bo^ 
again  for  to-night ;  you'll  see  if  I'm  not," 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE    LONG    VACATION    LETTER-BAG. 

"June  24,  1Si~. 

"  My  dear  ToM,^Your  letter  came  to  hand  this  morning, 
and  it  has,  of  course,  given  your  mother  and  me  much  pain. 
It  is  not  the  money  that  we  care  about,  but  that  our  son 
should  have  deliberately  undertaken,  or  pretended  to  under- 
take, what  he  must  have  known  at  the  time  he  could  not 
perform  himself. 

"I  have  written  to  my  bankers  to  pay  100^.  at  once  to 
your  account  at  the  Oxford  Bank.  I  have  also  requested  my 
solicitor  to  go  over  to  Oxford,  and  he  wUl  probably  call  on 
you  the  day  after  you  receive  this.  You  say  that  this  peison 
who  holds  your  note  of  hand  is  now  in  Oxford.  You  will 
see  him  in  the  presence  of  my  solicitor,  to  whom  you  will 
hand  the  note  when  you  have  recovered  it.  I  shall  consider 
afterwards  what  further  steps  will  have  to  be  taken  in  the 
matter. 

"  Yo'x  will  not  be  of  age  for  a  year.    It  will  be  time  enough 


TITE   LONG   VACATION   LETTER-BAG.  315 

then  to  determine  whether  you  will  repay  the  balance  of  this 
money  out  of  the  legacy  to  which  you  will  be  entitled  under 
\our  grandfather's  will.  In  the  meantime,  I  shall  deduct  at 
the  rate  of  501.  a  year  from  your  allowance,  and  I  shall  hold 
you  bound  in  honour  to  reduce  your  expenditure  by  this 
amount.  You  are  no  longer  a  boy,  and  one  of  the  first  duties 
which  a  man  owes  to  his  friends  and  to  society  is  to  live 
Within  his  income. 

"I  make  this  advance  to  you  on  two  conditions.  First, 
that  you  will  never  again  put  your  hand  to  a  note  or  bill  in 
a  transaction  of  this  kind.  If  you  have  money,  lend  it  or 
spend  it.  You  may  lend  or  spend  foolisldy,  but  that  is  not 
the  point  here;  at  any  rate  yon  are  dealing  with  what  is  your 
own.  But  in  transactions  of  this  kind  you  are  dealing  with 
what  is  not  yonr  own.  A  gentleman  should  shrink  from  the 
possibility  of  having  to  come  on  others,  even  on  his  own 
father,  for  the  fulfilment  of  his  obligations,  as  he  would  from  a 
lie.  I  would  sooner  see  a  son  of  mine  in  his  gi'ave  than 
crawling  on  through  life  a  slave  to  wants  and  habits  Avhich 
he  must  gratify  at  other  people's  expense. 

"  ]\Ty  second  condition  is,  that  you  put  an  end  to  your 
acquaintance  with  these  two  gentlemen  who  have  led  you 
into  this  scrape,  and  have  divided  the  proceeds  of  your  joint 
note  between  them.  They  are  both  your  seniors  in  standing, 
you  say,  and  they  appear  to  be  familiar  with  this  plan  of 
raising  money  at  the  exi^ense  of  other  people.  The  plain 
English  word  for  such  doings  is,  swindling.  What  pains  me 
most  is,  that  you  should  have  become  intimate  with  young 
men  of  this  kind.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  will  not  be  my  duty 
to  lay  the  whole  matter  before  the  authorities  of  the  College. 
You  do  not  mention  their  names,  and  I  respect  the  feeling 
wliich  has  led  you  not  to  mention  them.  I  shall  know  them 
quite  soon  enough  through  my  solicitor,  who  will  forward  mo 
a  copy  of  the  note  of  hand  and  signatirres  in  due  course. 

"  Your  letter  makes  general  allusion  to  other  matters  ;  and 
T  gather  from  it  that  you  are  dissatisfied  with  the  manner  in 
which  you  have  spent  your  first  year  at  Oxford.  I  do  not 
ask  for  specific  confessions,  which  you  seem  inclined  to  o^fcr 
me ;  in  fact  I  would  sooner  not  have  them,  unless  ther'S  is 
any  other  matter  in  which  you  want  assistance  or  advice  from 
Die.  I  know  from  experience  that  Oxford  is  a  place  full  of 
temptation  of  all  kinds,  offered  to  young  men  at  the  most 
critical  time  of  their  lives.  Knowing  this,  I  have  deliberately 
accepted  the  responsibility  of  sending  you  there,  and  I  do 
not  repent  it.  I  am  glad  that  you  are  dissatisfied  with  your 
rirst  year.     If  you  had  not  been   I  should  havB  felt  much 


316  TOM   BEOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

more  anxious  about  youv  second.  Let  bygones  be  bygones 
between  you  and  nje.  Yuu  know  wliere  to  go  for  strengtli, 
and  to  make  confessions  which  no  human  ear  should  hear, 
for  no  human  judgment  can  weigh  the  cause.  The  secret 
pkaces  of  a  man's  heart  are  for  himself  and  God.  Youi 
mother  sends  her  love. 

"  I  am,  ever  your  aifcctionate  father, 

"John  Erown." 

June  26lh,  184 — . 

"  My  dear  Boy, — I  am  not  sorry  that  you  have  taken  my 
last  letter  as  you  have  done.  It  is  quite  right  to  be  sensitiva 
on  these  points,  and  it  will  have  done  you  no  harm  to  have 
fancied  for  forty-eight  hours  that  you  had  in  my  judgment 
lost  caste  as  a  gentleman.  But  now  1  am  very  glad  to  be  able 
to  ease  your  mind  on  this  point.  You  have  done  a  very  foolish 
thing ;  but  it  is  only  the  habit,  and  the  getting  others  to 
buid  themselves,  and  not  the  doing  it  oneself  for  others,  which 
is  disgracefuh  You  are  going  to  pay  honourably  for  your 
folly,  and  will  owe  me  neither  thanks  nor  money  in  the 
transaction.  I  have  chosen  my  own  terms  for  repayment, 
which  you  have  accepted,  and  so  the  financial  question  is 
disposed  of. 

"  I  have  considered  what  you  say  as  to  your  companions — 
friends  I  will  not  call  them — and  will  promise  you  not  to 
take  any  further  steps,  or  to  mention  the  subject  to  any  one. 
But  I  must  insist  on  my  second  condition,  that  you  avoid  all 
further  intimacy  with  theia.  I  do  not  mean  that  you  are  to 
cut  them,  or  do  anything  that  will  attract  attention.  But,  no 
more  intimacy. 

"And  now,  my  deai  boy,  as  to  the  rest  of  your  letter. 
Mine  must  indeed  have  failed  to  express  my  meaning.  God 
forbid  tiiat  there  should  not  be  the  most  j)erfect  confidence 
between  us.  There  is  nothing  which  I  desii-e  or  value  more. 
I  only  question  whether  special  confessions  will  conduce  to  it. 
My  experience  is  against  them.  1  almost  doubt  whether  they 
can  be  perfectly  honest  between  man  and  man ;  and,  taking 
into  account  tht  diflerence  of  our  ages,  it  seema  to  me  much 
more  likely  that  we  should  misunderstand  one  another.  But 
having  said  this,  I  leave  it  to  you  to  follow  your  own  con- 
science in  the  matter.  If  there  is  any  burthen  which  I  can 
help  you  to  bear,  it  will  be  my  greatest  pleasure,  as  it  is  my 
duty,  to  do  it  So  now,  say  what  you  please,  or  say  no  more. 
If  you  speak,  it  will  be  to  one  who  has  felt  and  remembers  a 
young  man's  trials. 

"  We  hoi:)e  you  wUl  be  able  to  come  home  to-morrow,  or 


THE   LONG   VACATION   LETTER-BAG.  o'.l 

tlic  next  (lay,  at  latest.  Your  mother  is  longing  to  see  you, 
and  1  should  be  glad  to  have  you  here  a  day  or  two  before 
the  assizes,  which  are  held  next  week.  I  should  rather  like 
you  to  accompany  me  to  them,  as  it  will  give  me  the  oppor- 
tunity of  introducing  you  to  my  brother  magistrates  from  other 
parts  of  the  county,  whom  you  are  not  likely  to  meet  else- 
where, and  it  is  a  good  thing  for  a  young  man  to  know  his 
own  county  well. 

"The  cricket  club  is  very  flourishing  you  will  be  glad  to 
hear,  and  they  have  put  off  their  best  matches  till  your 
return  ;  so  you  are  in  great  request,  you  see.  I  am  told  that 
the  fishing  is  very  good  this  year,  and  am  promised  several 
days  for  you  in  the  club  water. 

"  September  is  a  long  way  off,  but  there  is  nothing  like 
being  beforehand ;  1  have  put  your  name  down  for  a 
licence  ;  and  it  is  time  you  should  have  a  good  gun  of  j^our 
own  ;  so  I  have  ordered  one  for  y. /i  from  a  man  who  has  lately 
settled  in  the  covmty.  He  Avas  Purdy's  foreman,  with  whom 
I  used  to  build,  and,  I  can  see,  understands  his  business 
thoroughly.  His  locks  are  as  good  as  any  1  have  ever  seen. 
1  have  told  him  to  make  the  stock  rather  longer,  and  not 
quite  so  straight  as  that  of  my  old  double  with  which  you 
sliot  last  year.  I  think  I  remember  you  criticized  my  weapon 
on  these  points  ;  but  there  will  be  time  for  you  to  alter  the 
details  after  yoii  get  home,  if  you  disapprove  of  my  orders. 
It  will  be  more  satisfactory  if  it  is  built  under  your  own  eye. 

If  you  continue  in  the  mind  for  a  month's  reading  with 
your  friend  Mr.  Hardy,  we  will  arrange  it  towards  the  end 
of  the  vacation  :  but  would  he  not  come  here  1  From  what 
you  say  we  should  very  much  lilve  to  know  him.  Pray  ask 
him  from  me  whether  he  will  pass  the  last  month  of  the 
vacation  here,  reading  with  you.  I  should  hke  you  to  be  his 
first  regular  pupil.  Of  course  this  will  be  my  afliair.  And 
now,  God  bless  you,  and  come  home  as  soon  as  you  can.  Your 
mother  sends  her  best  love. 

"  Ever  your  most  affectionate, 

"  JouN  Ekown." 

"  Englebotjrn  Kectory, 
''June  28th,  184—. 

"Dearest  Mary, — How  good  of  you  to  write  to  me  so 
soon  !  Your  letter  has  come  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine.  I  am 
in  the  midst  of  worries  already.  Indeed,  as  you  know,  I  could 
never  quite  throw  off  the  f(!ar  of  what  might  be  happen- 
ing here,  while  we  were  enjoying  ourselves  at  Oxford,  and  it 
has  ail  turned  out  even  worse  than  I  expected.     I  shall  never 


3]  8  TOM    EKOWN    AT    OXFOP.D. 

be  able  to  go  away  aj^wii  in  comfort,  I  think.  And  yot,  if  I 
had  been  here,  I  don't  know  that  I  could  have  done  any  good. 
It  is  so  very  sad  that  poor  papa  is  unable  to  attend  to  his 
magistrate's  business,  and  he  has  been  worse  than  usual,  quite 
laid  up  in  fact,  since  our  return.  There  is  no  other  magistrate 
— not  even  a  gentleman  in  the  place,  as  you  know,  except  the 
curate  :  and  they  will  not  listen  to  lam,  even  if  he  would  in- 
terfere in  then-  quarrels.  But  he  says  he  will  not  meddle  with, 
secular  matters  ;  and,  poor  man,  I  cannot  blame  him,  for  it  is 
very  sad  and  wearing  to  be  mixed  up  in  it  all. 

"  But  now  1  must  tell  you  all  my  troubles.  You  remember 
the  men  whom  we  saw  mowing  together  just  before  we  went 
to  Oxford.  Betty  Winburn's  son  was  one  of  them,  and  I  am 
afraid  the  rest  are  not  at  all  good  company  for  him.  When 
they  had  finished  papa's  hay,  they  went  to  mow  for  farmer 
Tester.  You  must  remember  him,  dear,  I  am  sure  ;  the  tall 
gaunt  man,  with  heavy  thxk  lips,  and  a  broken  nose,  and  the 
top  of  his  head  quite  llat,  as  if  it  had  been  cut  off  a  little 
above  his  eyebrows.  He  is  a  very  miserly  man,  and  a  hard 
master  ;  at  least  all  the  poor  people  tell  me  so,  and  he  looks 
cruel.  I  have  always  been  afraid  of  him,  and  disliked  him,  for 
I  remember  as  a  child  hearing  papa  comjilain  how  trouble- 
some he  was  in  the  vestry  ;  and  except  old  Simon,  who,  I 
believe,  only  does  it  from  perverseness,  I  have  never  heard 
anybody  speak  well  of  him. 

"  The  first  day  that  the  men  went  to  mow  for  farmer  Tester, 
he  gave  them  sour  beer  to  drink.  You  see,  dear,  they  bar- 
gain to  mow  for  so  much  money  and  their  beer.  They  wei'e 
very  discontented  at  tins,  and  they  lost  a  good  deal  of  time 
going  to  complain  to  him  about  it,  and  they  had  high  words 
with  him. 

"The  men  said  that  the  beer  wasn't  fit  for  pigs,  and  the 
famer  said  it  was  quite  good  enouglr  '  for  such  as  they,'  and 
if  they  didn't  like  his  beer  they  might  buy  their  own.  In  the 
evening,  too,  he  came  down  and  complained  that  the  mowing 
was  bad,  and  then  there  were  more  high  words,  for  the  men 
are  very  jealous  about  their  work.  However  they  went  to 
work  as  usTial  the  next  morning,  and  all  might  have  gone  oil 
quietly,  but  in  the  day  farmer  Tester  found  two  pigs  in  his 
turnip  field  which  adjoins  the  common,  and  had  them  put  in 
the  pound.  One  of  these  pig.s  belonged  to  Betty  Winburn's 
son,  and  the  other  to  one  of  the  men  who  was  mowing  with 
him  ;  so,  when  they  came  home  at  night,  they  found  what 
had  happened. 

"  The  constable  is  our  pound-keeper,  the  little  man  who 
amused  you  so  much  •  he  plays  the  bass-viol  in  church.    When 


THE   LONG   VACATION   LETTEE-BAG.  319 

he  puts  any  beasts  into  the  pound  be  cuts  a  stick  in  two,  and 
gives  one  piece  to  tbe  person  who  brings  the  beasts,  and  ket'[i3 
the  other  liimself ;  and  the  owner  of  the  beasts  has  to  bring 
the  other  end  of  the  stick  to  him  before  he  can  let  them  out. 
Therefore,  the  owner,  you  see,  must  go  to  the  person  who  has 
pounded  his  beasts,  and  make  a  bargain  with  him  for  payment 
of  the  damage  which  has  been  done,  and  so  get  back  the  otlitir 
end  of  the  stick,  which  they  call  the  '  tally,'  to  produce  to  the 
pound-keeper. 

"  Well,  the  men  went  off  to  the  constable's  when  thoy 
heard  their  pigs  were  pounded,  to  find  who  had  the  '  tally,' 
and,  when  they  found  it  Avas  farmer  Tester,  they  went  in  a 
body  to  his  house,  to  remonstrate  with  him,  and  learn  what 
he  set  the  damages  at.  The  fanner  used  dreadful  language  to 
them,  I  hear,  and  said  they  weren't  fit  to  have  pigs,  and  must 
pay  half  a  crown  for  each  pig,  before  they  should  have  the 
'  tally ; '  and  the  men  irrtiated  him  by  telling  him  that  his 
fences  were  a  shame  to  the  parish,  because  he  was  too  stingy 
to  have  them  mended,  and  that  the  pigs  couldn't  have  found 
half  a  crown's  worth  of  turnips  hi  the  whole  field,  for  he  never 
put  any  manure  on  it,  except  what  he  could  get  off  the  road, 
which  ought  to  belong  to  the  poor.  At  last  the  farmer  drove 
them  away,  saying  that  he  should  stop  the  money  out  of  the 
price  he  was  to  pay  for  their  mowing. 

"  Then  there  was  very  near  being  a  riot  in  the  parish  ;  for 
some  of  the  men  are  very  reckless  people,  and  they  went  in 
the  evening,  and  l)lew  horns,  and  beat  kettles  before  his  house, 
till  the  constable,  who  has  behaved  very  well,  persuaded  them 
to  go  away. 

"  In  the  morning,  one  of  the  pigs  had  been  taken  out  of 
the  pound  ;  not  Tietty's  son's,  I  am  glad  to  say — for  no  doulit 
it  was  very  wrong  of  tlie  men  to  take  it  out.  The  farmer  was 
furious,  and  went  with  the  cnnstal)le  in  the  morning  to  find 
the  pig,  but  they  could  hear  nothing  of  it  anj'^where.  James 
Pupe,  the  man  to  whom  it  belonged,  only  laughed  at  them, 
and  said  that  he  never  could  keep  his  pig  in  himself,  becaueo 
it  was  grandson  to  one  of  the  acting  pigs  that  went  about  tu 
the  fairs,  and  all  the  pigs  of  that  family  took  to  climbing 
naturally  ;  so  his  pig  must  have  climbed  out  of  the  pound. 
Tliis  of  course  was  all  a  story  :  the  men  had  lifted  the  i)ig 
out  of  the  pound,  and  then  killed  it,  so  that  the  fainier  might 
not  find  it,  and  sold  the  meat  cheaj)  all  over  the  parish.  Betty 
went  to  the  farmer  that  morning,  and  paid  the  half-crown,  and 
got  her  son's  pi^,  out  before  he  came  home ;  but  farmer  Tester 
stopped  the  other  halt-crown  out  of  the  men's  wagoo,  whic'i 
made  matters  woi^e  than  ever. 


320  TOM    BROWN    AT   OXFORD. 

"  The  day  that  we  were  in  the  Theatre  at  Oxford,  farmer 
Tester  was  away  at  one  of  the  markets.  He  turns  his  big 
cattle  out  to  graze  on  the  common,  which  the  poor  people  say 
he  has  no  right  to  do,  and  in  the  afternoon  a  pony  of  his  got 
into  the  allotments,  and  Betty's  son  caught  it,  and  took  it  to 
the  constable,  and  had  it  put  in  the  pound.  The  constable 
tried  to  persuade  him  not  to  do  it,  but  it  was  of  no  use ;  anil 
60,  when  farmer  Tester  came  home,  he  found  that  his  turn  had 
come.  I  am  afraid  that  he  was  not  sober,  for  I  hear  that  ho 
behaved  dreadfully  both  to  the  constable  and  to  Betty's  son, 
and,  when  he  found  that  he  could  not  frighten  them,  he 
declared  he  would  have  the  law  of  them  if  it  cost  him  twenty 
pounds.  So  in  the  morning  he  went  to  fetch  his  lawyer, 
and  when  we  got  home  you  can  fancy  what  a  scene  it 
was. 

"  You  remember  how  poorly  papa  was  when  you  left  us 
at  Laml)ourn.  By  the  time  we  got  home  he  was  quite 
knocked  up,  and  so  nervous  that  he  was  fit  for  nothing 
except  to  have  a  quiet  cup  of  tea  in  his  own  room.  I  was 
sure,  as  we  drove  up  the  street,  there  was  something  the 
matter.  The  ostler  was  watching  outside  the  Red  Lion,  and 
ran  in  as  soon  as  we  came  in  sight  ;  and,  as  we  passed  the 
door,  out  came  farmer  Tester,  looking  very  flushed  in  the 
face,  and  carrying  his  great  iron- handled  whip,  and  a  person 
with  him,  who  I  found  was  his  lawyer,  and  they  marched 
after  the  carriage.  Then  the  constable  was  standing  at  his 
door  too,  and  he  came  after  us,  and  there  was  a  group  of  men 
outside  the  rectory  gate.  We  had  not  been  in  the  house  five 
minutes  before  the  servant  came  in  to  say  that  farmer  Tester 
and  a  gentleman  wanted  to  see  papa  on  particular  business. 
I'apa  sent  out  word  he  was  very  unwell,  and  that  it  was  not 
the  [>roper  time  to  come  on  business  ;  he  would  see  them 
the  next  day  at  twelve  o'clock.  But  they  would  not  go 
away,  and  then  papa  asked  me  to  go  out  and  see  them.  You 
can  fancy  hovr  disagree  ible  it  was  ;  and  I  was  so  angry  with 
them  for  coming,  wlien  they  knew  how  nei'vous  papa  is  after 
a  journey,  that  I  could  not  have  patience  to  persuade  them 
to  leave ;  and  so  at  last  they  made  poor  papa  see  thom 
after  all. 

He  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  and  quite  unfit  to  cope  with  a  hard 
bad  man  lilve  farmer  Tester,  and  a  fluent  plausible  lawyer. 
They  told  their  story  all  their  own  way,  and  the  farmer 
declared  that  the  man  had  tempted  the  pony  into  the  allot- 
ments with  corn.  And  the  lawyer  said  that  the  consta1>le 
had  no  right  to  l^eep  the  pony  in  the  pound,  and  that  he  was 
liable  to  all  sorts  of  punishments.     They  wanted  papa  to 


THE   LONG  VACATION    LETTER-BAG,  .^21 

make  au  order  at  once  for  the  pound  to  bo  opened,  and  I 
tliink  he  woukl  have  done  so,  but  I  asked  him  in  a  whisjier 
to  send  for  the  constable,  and  hear  what  he  liad  to  say.  The 
constable  was  waiting  in  the  kitclien,  so  he  came  in  in  a 
minute.  You  can't  think  how  well  he  behaved ;  I  have 
quite  forgiven  hun  all  his  obstinacy  about  the  singing.  He 
told  the  wliolo  story  about  the  pigs,  and  how  farmer  Tester 
had  stopped  money  out  of  the  men's  wages.  And  when  tlio 
lawyer  tried  to  frighten  him,  he  answered  him  quite  boldly, 
that  he  miglitn't  know  so  much  about  the  law,  but  he  knew 
what  was  always  the  custom  long  before  his  time  at  Engle- 
bouru  about  the  pound,  and  if  farmer  Tester  wanted  his 
beast  out,  he  must  bring  the  '  tally '  like  another  man.  Then 
tlie  lawyer  appealed  to  papa  about  the  law,  and  said  how 
absurd  it  was,  and  tliat  if  such  a  custom  were  to  be  upheld, 
the  man  who  had  the  tally  might  charge  lOOZ.  for  the  damage. 
And  poor  papa  looked  througli  his  law  books,  and  could  find 
nothing  about  it  at  all ;  and  while  he  was  doing  it  farmer 
Tester  began  to  abuse  the  constable,  and  said  he  sided  with 
all  the  good-for-nothing  fellows  in  the  parish,  and  that  bad 
blood  would  come  of  it.  But  the  constable  quite  fired  up  at 
that,  and  told  him  that  it  was  such  as  he  who  made  bad 
blood  in  the  parish,  and  that  poor  folks  had  their  rights  as 
well  as  thcu-  betters,  and  should  have  them  while  he  was 
constable.  If  he  got  papa's  oi-der  to  open  the  pound,  he  sup- 
loosed  he  must  do  it,  and  'twas  not  for  him  to  say  what  was 
law,  but  Harry  Winburn  had  had  to  get  the  *  tally '  for 
his  pig  from  farmer  Tester,  and  what  was  fair  for  one  was 
fair  for  all. 

"  I  was  afraid  papa  would  have  made  the  order,  but  the 
lawyer  said  something  at  last  which  made  Imn  take  the 
other  side.  So  he  settled  that  the  farmer  should  pay  five 
shillings  for  the  '  tally,'  which  was  what  he  had  taken  from 
Betty,  and  had  stopped  out  of  the  Avages,  and  that  was  the 
only  order  he  would  make,  and  the  laAvj^er  might  do  M'hat  he 
pleased  about  it.  The  constable  seemed  satisfied  with  this, 
and  undertook  to  take  the  money  down  to  Harry  Winburn, 
/or  farmer  Tester  declared  he  would  sooner  let  the  pony  starve 
than  go  himself.  And  so  papa  got  rid  of  them  after  an  hour 
and  more  of  this  talk.  The  lawyer  and  farmer  Tester  went 
away  grumbling  and  very  angry  to  the  Eed  Lion.  I  was 
very  anxious  to  hear  how  the  matter  ended  ;  so  I  sent  after 
the  constable  to  ask  him  to  come  back  and  see  me  when  he 
had  settled  it  all,  and  about  nine  o'clock  he  came.  He  had 
had  a  very  hard  job  to  got  Harry  Winburn  to  take  the  money, 
and  give  up  the  '  tally.'     The  men  said  that,  if  farmer  Tester 

T 


822  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

could  make  them  pay  half-a-crown  for  a  pig  in  his  turnips, 
whicli  were  no  bigger  than  radishes,  he  ought  to  pay  ten 
shillings  at  least  for  his  pony  trampling  down  their  corn, 
which  was  half  grown  ;  and  I  couldn't  help  thinking  this 
seemed  very  reasonable.  In  the  end,  however,  the  constable 
had  persuaded  them  to  take  the  money,  and  so  the  pony  was 
let  out. 

"  I  told  him  how  pleased  I  was  at  the  way  he  had  behaved, 
Dut  the  little  man  didn't  seem  quite  satisfied  himself.  He 
should  have  liked  to  have  given  the  lawyer  a  piece  more  of 
his  mind,  he  said,  only  he  was  no  scholar ;  '  but  I've  a  got 
all  the  feelins  of  a  man,  miss,  though  I  medn't  have  the 
ways  o'  bringin'  on  'em  out.'  You  see  I  am  quite  coming 
round  to  your  opinion  about  him.  But  when  I  said  that  I 
hoped  all  the  trouble  was  over,  he  shook  his  head,  and  he 
S(>cms  to  think  that  the  men  Avill  not  forget  it,  and  that  some 
of  the  wild  ones  will  be  trying  to  pay  farmer  Tester  out  in 
the  winter  nights,  and  I  could  see  he  was  very  anxious 
about  Harry  Wiubiu-n  ;  so  I  promised  him  to  go  and  see 
Betty. 

"  I  went  down  to  her  cottage  yesterday,  and  found  her  very 
low,  poor  old  soul,  about  her  son.  She  has  had  a  bad  nttack 
again,  and  T  am  afraid  her  heart  is  not  right.  She  will  not 
live  long  if  she  has  much  to  make  her  anxious,  and  how  is 
that  to  be  avoided  1  For  her  son's  courting  is  all  going 
wrong,  she  can  see,  though  he  will  not  tell  her  anything  about 
it ;  but  he  gets  more  moody  and  restless,  she  says,  and  don't 
take  a  pride  in  anything,  not  even  in  his  flowers  or  his  allot- 
ment ;  and  he  takes  to  going  about,  more  and  more  every  day, 
with  these  men,  who  will  be  sure  to  lead  him  into  trouble. 

"  After  I  left  her,  I  walked  up  to  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  to 
see  whether  the  view  and  the  air  would  not  do  me  good. 
And  it  did  do  me  a  great  deal  of  good,  dear,  and  I  thouglit 
of  you,  and  when  I  should  see  your  bright  face  and  hear  your 
h.-ipp)' laugh  again.  The  village  looked  so  pretty  and  peaceful. 
T  could  hardly  Ijolieve,  while  I  was  up  there,  that  there  were 
all  these  miserable  quarrels  and  heartburnings  going  on  in.  it. 
I  suppose  they  go  on  everywhere,  but  one  can't  help  feeling 
as  if  there  were  soinething  specially  hard  in  those  which 
come  under  one's  own  eyes,  and  touch  oneself  And  thea 
they  are  so  frivolous,  and  everything  might  go  on  so  com- 
fortably if  people  would  only  be  reasonable.  I  ought  to 
have  been  a  man,  I  am  sure,  and  then  I  might,  perhaps,  be 
able  to  do  more,  and  should  have  more  influence.  If  poor 
papa  were  oidy  well  and  strong ! 

"  But,  dear,  I  shall  tire  you  with  all  these  long  liistorios 


I 


THE    LOXG   VACATION  LETTER-EAG.  323 

aTnl  complainings.  I  have  run  on  till  I  have  no  room  left 
for  anything  else  ;  but  you  can't  think  what  a  comfort  it  is 
to  me  to  write  it  all  to  you,  for  1  have  no  one  to  tell  it  to.  I 
feel  60  much  better,  and  more  cheerful  since  I  sat  down  to 
write  this.  You  must  give  my  dear  love  to  uncle  and  aunt, 
and  let  me  hear  from  you  again  wlienever  you  have  time.  If 
you  could  coiue  over  again  and  stay  for  a  few  days  it  would 
be  very  kind  ;  but  I  must  not  press  it,  as  there  is  nothing  to 
attract  you  here,  only  we  miglit  talk  over  all  that  we  did  and 
saw  at  Oxford. — Ever,  dearest  Mary,  your  very  affectionaie 
cousin, 

"  Katie. 

"  P.S. — I  should  like  to  have  the  pattern  of  the  jacket 
you  wore  the  last  day  at  Oxford.  Could  you  cut  it  out  in 
thill  paper,  and  send  it  in  your  next  1 " 

"July—,  184—. 

"  My  dear  Brown, — I  was  very  glad  to  see  your  hand, 
and  to  hear  such  flourishing  accounts  of  your  vacation  doings. 
You  won't  get  any  like  announcement  of  me,  for  cricket  has 
not  yet  come  so  far  west  as  this,  at  least  not  to  settle.  We 
have  a  few  pioneers  and  squatters  in  the  villages  ;  but,  T  am 
sorry  to  say,  nothing  yet  like  matches  between  the  elevens  of 
districts.  Neighbours  we  have  none,  except  the  rector  ;  so  I 
have  plenty  of  spare  time,  some  of  which  I  feel  greatly  dis- 
posed to  devote  to  you  j  and  I  hope  you  won't  find  me  too 
tedious  to  read. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  your  father  to  wish  that  you  should  be 
my  first  pupil,  and  to  propose  that  I  should  spend  the  last 
month  of  this  vacation  with  you  in  Berkshire.  But  I  do  not 
like  to  give  up  a  whole  month.  My  father  is  getting  old  and 
infirm,  and  I  can  see  that  it  would  be  a  great  trial  to  him, 
altliough  he  urges  it,  and  is  always  telling  me  not  to  let  him 
keep  me  at  home.  What  do  you  say  to  meeting  me  half  way  1 
I  mean,  that  you  should  come  here  for  half  of  the  time,  and 
then  that  I  should  retiu-n  with  you  for  the  last  fortnight  of 
the  vacation.     Tliis  I  could  manage  perfectly. 

"But  you  cannot  in  any  case  be  my  first  pupil  ;  for  not  to 
mention  that  I  have  been  as  yon  know,  teaching  for  some 
years,  I  have  a  pupil  here,  at  this  minute.  You  are  not 
likely  to  guess  who  it  is,  though  you  know  him  well  enough 
— perhaps  I  sliould  say  too  well — so,  in  a  word,  it  is  Blake. 
I  had  not  been  at  home  three  days  before  I  got  a  letter  from 
him,  asking  me  to  take  him,  and  putting  it  in  such  a  APay  that 
I  couldn't  refuse.  I  would  sooner  not  have  had  him,  as  I 
had  already  got  out  of  taking  a  reading  party  with   some 

Y  2 


324  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

trouWe,  and  felt  inclined  to  enjoy  myself  here  in  dignifiod 
idleness  till  next  term.  But  what  can  you  do  when  a  man 
puts  it  to  you  as  a  great  personal  favour,  &c.  &c.  1  So  I 
wrote  to  accept.  You  may  imagine  my  disgust  a  day  or  two 
afterwards,  at  getting  a  letter  from  an  uncle  of  his,  some  official 
person  in  London  apparently,  treating  the  whole  matter  in  a 
bnsiness  point  of  view,  and  me  as  if  I  were  a  training  groom. 
He  is  good  enough  to  suggest  a  stimulant  to  me  in  the  shape 
of  extra  pay  and  his  future  patronage  in  the  event  of  his 
nephew's  taking  a  first  in  Michaelmas  term.  If  I  had  re- 
ceived this  letter  before,  I  think  it  would  have  turned 
the  scale,  and  I  should  have  refused.  But  the  thing  was 
done,  and  Blake  isn't  fairly  responsible  for  his  relative's 
views. 

"  So  here  he  has  been  for  a  fortnight.  He  took  a  lodging 
in  the  village  at  first  ;  but  of  course  my  dear  old  father's 
ideas  of  hospitality  were  shocked  at  this,  and  here  he  is,  our 
inmate. 

"  He  reads  fiercely  by  fits  and  starts.  A  feeling  of  personal 
hatred  against  the  examiners  seems  to  urge  him  on  more  than 
any  other  motive  ;  but  this  will  not  be  strong  enough  to  keep 
him  to  regular  work,  and  without  regular  work  he  won't  do, 
notwithstanding  all  his  cleverness,  and  he  is  a  marvellously 
clever  fellow.  So  the  first  thing  i  have  to  do  is  to  get  him 
steadily  to  the  collar,  and  how  to  do  it  is  a  pretty  particular 
puzzle.  For  he  hasn't  a  grain  of  enthusiasm  in  his  composi- 
tion, nor  any  power,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  of  throwing  himself 
into  the  times  and  scenes  of  which  he  is  reading.  The  phi- 
losophy of  Greece  and  the  history  of  Rome  are  matters  of 
perfect  indifference  to  him — to  be  got  up  by  catch-words  and 
dates  for  examination  and  nothing  more.  I  don't  think  he 
would  care  a  straw  if  Socrates  had  never  lived,  or  Hannibal 
had  destroyed  Rome.  The  greatest  names  and  deeds  of  the 
old  world  are  just  so  many  dead  counters  to  him — the  Jewish 
just  as  much  as  the  rest.  I  tried  him  with  the  story  of  the 
attempt  of  Antiochus  Epii)hanes  to  conquer  the  Jews,  and 
the  glorious  rising  of  all  that  was  living  in  the  Holy  Land 
under  the  Macabees.  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  I  couldn't  get  a 
spark  out  of  him.  He  wouldn't  even  read  the  story  be- 
cause it  is  in  the  Apocrj^pha,  and  so,  as  he  said,  the 
d— d  examiners  couldn't  ask  him  anything  about  it  in  the 
schools. 

Then  his  sense  of  duty  is  quite  undeveloped.  He  has  no 
notion  of  going  on  doing  anything  disagreeable  because  he 
ought.  So  here  I  am  at  fault  again.  Ambition  he  has  in 
abundance  ;  in  fact  so  strongly,  that  very  likely  it  may  in  the 


I 


tft;  long  vacation  lftter-bag.  525 

end  pull  Lim  through,  and  make  him  work  hard  enough  for 
his  Oxfoid  purposes  at  any  rate.  But  it  wants  repressing 
rather  than  encouragement,  and  1  certainly  sha'n't  appeal 
to  it. 

"  You  will  begin  to  think  I  dislike  him  and  want  to  get 
rid  of  him,  but  it  isn't  the  case.  You  know  what  a  good 
temper  he  has,  and  how  remarkably  well  he  talks  ;  so  he 
makes  himself  very  pleasant,  and  my  father  evidently  enjoys 
his  company  ;  and  then  to  be  in  constant  intercourse  with  a 
subtle  intellect  like  his,  is  pleasantly  exciting,  and  keeps  one 
alive  and  at  high  pressure,  though  one  can't  help  always 
wishing  that  it  had  a  little  heat  in  it.  You  would  be  im- 
mensely amused  if  you  could  drop  in  on  us. 

"  I  think  I  have  told  you,  or  you  must  have  seen  it  for 
yourself,  that  my  father's  principles  are  true  blue,  as  becomes 
a  sailor  of  the  time  of  the  great  war,  while  his  instincts  and 
practice  are  liberal  in  the  extreme.  Our  rector,  on  tjhe 
contrary,  is  liberal  in  principles,  but  an  aristocrat  of  the 
aristocrats  in  instinct  and  practice.  They  are  always  ready 
enough  therefore  to  do  battle,  and  Blake  delights  in  the  war, 
and  fans  it  and  takes  part  in  it  as  a  sort  of  free  lance,  laying 
little  logical  pitfalls  for  the  combatants  alternately,  with  that 
deferential  manner  of  his.  He  gets  some  sort  of  intellectual 
pleasure,  I  suppose,  out  of  seeing  where  they  ovyht  to  tumble 
in  ;  for  tumble  in  they  don't,  but  clear  his  pit-falls  in  their 
stride — at  least  my  father  does — quite  innocent  of  having 
neglected  to  distribute  his  middle  term  ;  and  the  rector,  if  he 
has  some  inkling  of  these  traps,  brushes  them  aside,  and 
disdains  to  spend  powder  on  any  one  but  his  old  adversary 
and  friend.  I  employ  myself  in  trying  to  come  down  ruth- 
lessly on  Blake  himself  ;  and  so  we  spend  our  evenings  after 
dinner,  which  comes  off  at  the  primitive  hour  of  five.  We  used 
to  dine  at  three,  but  my  father  has  conformed  now  to  college 
hours.  If  the  rector  does  not  come,  instead  of  argumentative 
talk,  we  get  stories  out  of  my  father.  In  the  mornings  we 
bathe,  and  boat,  and  read.  So,  you  see,  he  and  I  have  plenty 
of  one  another's  company,  and  it  is  certainly  odd  that  we  get 
on  so  well  with  so  very  few  points  of  sympathy.  But,  luckily, 
besides  his  good  temper  and  cleverness,  he  has  plenty  of 
humour.  On  the  whole,  I  think  we  shall  rub  through  the 
two  months  which  he  is  to  spend  here  without  getting  to  hate 
one  another,  though  there  is  little  chance  of  our  becoming 
friends.  Besides  putting  some  history  and  science  into  him 
(scholarship  he  does  not  need),  I  shall  be  satisfied  if  I  can 
make  him  give  up  his  use  of  the  pronoun  'you'  before  h? 
goes.     In  talking  of  the  com  laws,  or  foreign  policy,  or  India, 


H26  TOM  BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

or  any  other  political  subject,  however  interesting,  he  never 
will  identify  himself  as  an  Englishman ;  and  '  you  do  this,' 
or  '  you  expect  that'  is  for  ever  in  his  mouth,  speaking  of  his 
own  countrymen.  I  believe  if  the  French  were  to  land  to- 
morrow on  Portland,  he  would  comment  on  our  attempts  to 
dislodge  them  as  if  he  had  no  concern  with  the  business  except 
as  a  looker-on. 

"  You  will  think  all  this  rather  a  slow  return  for  your  jolly 
gossiping  letter,  full  of  cricket,  archery,  fishing,  and  I  know 
not  what  pleasant  goings-on.  But  what  is  one  to  do  %  one 
can  only  write  about  what  is  one's  subject  of  interest  for  the 
time  being,  and  Blake  stands  in  that  relation  to  me  just  now. 
I  should  prefer  it  otherwise,  but  &i  on  ria  pas  ce  qu'on  aime  il 
faut  aimer  ce  quon  a.  I  have  no  incident  to  relate  ;  these 
parts  get  on  without  incidents  somehow,  and  without  society. 
I  wish  there  were  some,  particularly  ladies'  society.  1  break 
thQ  tenth  commandment  constantly,  thinking  of  Commemora- 
tion, and  that  you  are  within  a  ride  of  Miss  Winter  and  her 
cousin.  When  you  see  them  next,  pray  present  my  respectful 
compliments.  It  is  a  sort  of  consolation  to  think  that  one 
may  cross  their  fancy  for  a  moment  and  be  remembered  as 
part  of  a  picture  which  gives  them  pleasure.  With  which 
piece  of  sentiment  I  may  as  well  shut  up.  Don't  you  forget 
my  message  now,  and — 

"  Believe  me,  ever  yours  most  truly, 

"John  Hardy. 

"  P.S. — I  mean  to  speak  to  Blake,  when  I  get  a  chance,  of 
that  wretched  debt  which  you  have  paid,  unless  you  object. 
I  should  think  better  of  him  if  he  seemed  more  uncomfortable 
about  his  affairs.  After  all  he  may  be  more  so  than  I  think, 
for  he  is  very  reserved  on  such  subjects." 

"  Englebourn  Rectory, 
''July,  184—. 

"  Dearest  Mary, — I  send  the  coachman  with  this  note,  in 
order  that  you  may  not  be  anxious  about  me.  1  have  just 
retxirned  from  poor  Betty  Winburn's  cottage  to  write  it.  She  is 
very  very  ill,  aud  I  do  not  think  can  last  out  more  than  a  day 
or  two  ;  and  she  seems  to  cling  to  me  so  that  I  cannot  have 
the  heart  to  leave  her.  Indeed,  if  I  could  make  up  my  mind 
to  do  it,  I  should  never  get  her  poor  white  eager  face  out  of 
my  head  all  day,  so  that  I  should  be  very  bad  company,  and 
quite  out  of  place  at  your  party,  making  everybody  melancholy 
and  uncomfortable  who  came  near  me.  So,  dear,  I  am  not 
coming.  Of  course  it  is  a  great  disappointment.  I  had  set 
my  heart  on  being  with  you,  and  enjoying  it  all  thoroughly  ; 


TilE   LONG   VACATION   LETTER-BAG.  327 

and  even  at  breakfast  this  morning  knew  of  nothing  to  hinder 
rae.  My  dress  is  actually  lying  on  the  bed  at  this  minute, 
and  it  looks  very  pretty,  especially  the  jacket  like  yours, 
which  I  and  Hopkins  have  managed  to  make  up  from  the 
pattern  you  sent,  though  you  forgot  the  sleeves,  which  made 
it  rather  hard  to  do.  Ah,  well ;  it  is  of  no  use  to  thmk  of 
how  pleasant  things  would  have  been  which  one  cannot  have. 
You  must  write  me  an  account  of  how  it  all  went  off,  dear ; 
or  perhaps  you  can  manage  to  get  over  here  before  long  to 
tell  me, 

"  I  must  now  go  back  to  poor  Betty.  She  is  such  a  faithful, 
patient  old  thing,  and  has  been  such  a  good  woman  all  her 
lite  that  there  is  nothing  painful  in  being  by  her  now,  and 
one  feels  sure  that  it  will  be  much  happier  and  better  for  her 
to  be  at  rest.  If  she  could  only  feel  comfortable  about  her 
son,  1  am  sure  she  would  think  so  herself.  Oli,  I  forgot  to 
say  that  her  attack  was  brought  on  by  the  shock  of  hearing 
that  he  had  been  simimoued  for  an  assault.  Farmer  Tester's 
son,  a  young  man  abuut  his  own  age,  has  it  seems  been  of  late. 
waylaying  Simon's  daughter  and  making  love  to  her.  It  is 
so  very  hard  to  make  out  the  truth  "in  matters  of  this  kind. 
Hopkins  says  she  is  a  dressed-up  little  minx  who  runs  after 
all  tlie  young  men  in  the  parish  ;  but  really,  from  what  I  see 
and  hear  from  other  persons,  I  think  she  is  a  good  girl  enough. 
Even  Betty,  who  looks  on  her  as  the  cause  of  most  of  her 
own  trouble,  has  never  said  a  \vord  to  make  me  think  that  she 
is  at  all  a  light  person,  or  more  fond  of  admiration  than  any 
other  good-looking  girl  in  the  parish. 

"  But  those  Testers  are  a  very  mcked  set.  You  cannot 
think  what  a  misfortune  it  is  in  a  place  like  tliis  to  have  these 
rich  fimiilies  with  estates  of  their  own,  in  which  the  young 
men  begin  to  think  themselves  above  the  common  farmers. 
They  ape  the  gentlemen,  and  give  themselves  great  airs,  but 
of  course  no  gentleman  will  associate  with  them,  as  tliey  are 
quite  uneducated  ;  and  the  consequence  is  tliat  they  live  a 
great  deal  at  home,  and  give  themselves  up  to  all  kinds  of 
wickedness.  This  young  Tester  is  one  of  these.  His  father 
is  a  very  bad  old  man,  and  does  a  great  deal  of  liarm  here  ; 
and  the  son  is  following  in  his  steps,  and  is  quite  as  bad,  or 
worse.  So  you  see  that  I  sliall  not  easily  believe  that  Harry 
Winbum  has  been  much  in  the  wToug.  However,  all  1  know 
of  it  at  present  is  that  young  Tester  was  beaten  by  Harry 
yesterday  evening  in  the  village  street,  and  that  they  came  to 
papa  at  once  for  a  summons. 

"  Oh,  here  is  the  coachman  ready  to  start ;  so  I  must 
conclude,   dear,  and  go  back  to  my  patient.     I  shall   often 


328  'iOM    BROWN    A.T    OXFORD. 

tliiiik  of  you  during  the  day.  I  am  sure  you  will  have  a 
chamiuig  party.  With  best  love  to  all,  believe  me,  ever 
dearest, 

'*  Your  most  aflfectionate 

"  Katie. 

"  P.S. — I  am  very  glad  that  uncle  and  aunt  take  to  Tom, 
and  that  he  is  staying  with  you  for  some  days.  You  will 
hnd  him  very  useful  in  making  the  party  go  off  well,  I  am 
sure." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

AMUaEMENTS    AT    BARTON    MANOR. 

*'  A  LETTER,  Miss,  from  Englcbourn,"  said  a  footman, 
coming  up  to  Mary  with  tlie  note  given  at  the  end  of  the  last 
chapter,  on  a  waiter.  She  took  it  and  tore  it  open ;  and, 
whUe  she  is  reading  it,  the  reader  may  be  mtroduced  to  the 
place  and  company  in  which  we  find  her.  Tlio  scene  is  a 
large  old-fashioned  square  brick  house,  backed  by  fine  trees, 
in  the  tops  of  which  the  rooks  live,  and  the  jackdaws  and 
starlings  in  the  many  holes  which  time  has  worn  in  the  old 
trunks ;  bat  they  are  all  away  on  this  fine  summer  morning, 
seeking  their  meal  and  enjoying  themselves  in  the  neigh- 
boiuing  fields.  In  front  of  the  house  is  a  pretty  flower- 
garden,  separated  by  a  haw-haw  from  a  large  pasture,  sloping 
southwards  gently  down  to  a  stream,  which  glides  along 
through  water-cress  and  willow  beds  to  join  the  Kennet.  The 
beasts  have  ail  been  driven  off,  and  on  the  upper  part  of  the 
field,  nearest  the  house,  two  men  are  fixing  up  a  third  pair  of 
targets  on  the  rich  short  grass.  A  large  tent  is  pitched 
near  the  archery-ground,  to  hold  quivers  and  bow-cases,  and 
luncheon,  and  to  shelter  lookers-on  fi'om  the  mid-day  sun. 
Beyond  the  brook  a  pleasant,  well-timbered,  country  lies,  with 
high  clialk-downs  for  an  horizon,  ending  in  Marlborough  hill, 
faint  and  blue  in  the  west.  Tliis  is  the  place  which  Mary's 
father  has  taken  for  the  summer  and  autumn,  and  where  sho 
is  fast  becomiug  the  pet  of  tlie  neighbourhood. 

It  will  not  perhaps  surprise  our  readers  to  find  that  our 
hero  has  managed  to  find  his  way  to  Barton  Manor  in  the 
second  week  of  the  vacation,  and,  huvuig  made  the  most  of 
his  opportunities,  is  acknowledged  as  a  cousin  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Porter.  Their  boys  are  at  home  for  the  holidays,  and 
ilr.  Porter's  great  wish  is  that  they  should  get  used  to  tlio 
country  in  their  summer  holidays.     And  as  they  have  spent 


A^^roSEMENTS   AT  BARTON   JIANOR.  329 

most  of  their  childhood  and  boyhood  in  London,  to  which 
he  has  been  tied  pretty  closely  hitherto,  this  is  a  great  oppor- 
tunity. The  boys  only  wanted  a  preceptor,  and  Tom  presented 
himself  at  the  right  moment,  and  soon  became  the  hero  of 
Charley  and  Neddy  Porter.  He  taught  them  to  throw  flica 
and  bait  crawfish  nets,  to  bat-fowl,  and  ferret  for  rabbits,  and 
to  saddle  and  ride  their  ponies,  besides  getting  up  games  of 
cricket  in  the  spare  evenings,  which  kept  him  away  from  Mr. 
Porter's  dinner-table.  This  last  piece  of  self-denial,  as  lie 
considered  it,  quite  won  over  that  gentleman,  who  agreed 
with  his  wife  that  Tom  was  just  the  sort  of  companion  they 
would  like  for  the  boys,  and  so  the  house  was  thruwn  open 
to  him. 

The  boys  were  always  clamouring  for  him  when  he  was 
away,  and  making  their  mother  write  off  to  press  him  to 
come  again  ;  which  he,  being  a  very  good-natured  young  man, 
and  particularly  fond  of  boys,  was  ready  enough  to  do.  So 
tills  was  the  third  visit  he  had  paid  in  a  month. 

IVJr.  and  Mrs.  Brown  wondered  a  little  that  he  shoidd  be 
so  very  fond  of  the  young  Porters,  who  were  good  boys 
enough,  but  very  much  like  other  boys  of  thirteen  and  fifteen, 
of  whom  there  were  several  in  the  neighbovu'hood.  He  had 
indeed  just  mentioned  an  elder  sister,  but  so  casually  that 
their  attention  had  not  been  drawn  to  the  fact,  which  had 
almost  slipped  out  of  their  memories.  On  the  other  hand, 
Tom  seemed  so  completely  to  identify  himself  with  the  boys 
and  their  pursuits,  that  it  never  o^cuiTed  to  their  father  and 
mother,  who  were  doatingly  fond  of  them,  that,  after  all, 
tliey  might  not  be  the  only  attraction.  Mary  seemed  to  take 
very  little  notice  of  him,  and  went  on  with  her  own  pursuits 
much  as  usual.  It  was  true  that  she  liked  keepmg  the  score 
at  cricket,  and  coming  to  look  at  them  fishing  or  rabbiting  in 
her  walks  ;  but  all  that  was  very  natural.  It  is  a  curious 
and  merciful  dispensation  of  Providence  that  most  fathers 
and  mothers  seem  never  to  be  capable  of  remembering  their 
oAvn  experience,  and  will  probably  go  on  till  the  end  of 
time  thinking  of  their  sons  of  twenty  and  daughters  of  six- 
teen or  seventeen  as  mere  children,  who  may  be  allowed  to 
run  about  together  as  much  as  they  please.  And,  where  it 
is  otherwise,  the  results  are  not  very  different,  for  there  are 
certain  mysterious  ways  of  holding  intercourse  implanted  in 
the  youth  of  both  sexes,  against  which  no  vigilance  can 
avail. 

So  on  this,  her  great  fete  day,  Tom  had  been  helping  Mary 
all  the  morning  in  dressing  the  rooms  with  flowers,  aiul 
arranging  all  the  details — where  people  were  to  sit  at  the  cold 


330  TOM  BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

dinner ;  how  to  find  the  proper  number  of  seats ;  how 
the  dining-room  was  to  be  cleared  in  time  for  dancing 
when  the  dew  began  to  fall.  In  all  which  matters  there 
were  many  obvious  occasions  for  those  little  attentions  which 
are  much  valued  by  persons  in  like  situations  ;  and  Tom 
was  not  sorry  that  the  boys  had  voted  the  whole  prepara- 
tions a  bore,  and  had  gone  off  to  the  brook  to  '  gropple ' 
in  the  bank  for  craytish  till  the  shooting  began.  The  arrival 
of  the  note  had  been  the  first  contrt-tevqjs  of  the  morning, 
and  they  were  now  expecting  guests  to  arrive  every  minute. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  No  bad  news,  I  hope,"  he  said, 
seeing  her  vexed  expi'ession. 

"  Why,  Katie  can't  come.  I  declare  I  could  sit  down  and 
cry.  I  sha'n't  enjoy  the  party  a  bit  now,  and  1  wish  it  were 
all  over." 

"  I  am  sure  Katie  would  be  very  unhappy  if  she  thought 
you  were  going  to  spoil  you  day's  pleasure  on  her  account." 

"  Yes,  I  know  she  would.  But  it  is  so  provoking  when  I 
had  looked  forward  so  to  having  her." 

"  You  have  never  told  me  why  she  cannot  come.  She  was 
quite  full  of  it  all  a  few  days  since." 

"  Oh,  there  is  a  poor  old  woman  in  the  village  dying,  who 
is  a  great  friend  of  Katie's.  Here  is  her  letter ;  let  me  scf," 
she  said,  glancing  over  it  to  see  that  there  was  nothing  in  it 
whicli  she  did  not  wish  him  to  read,  "  you  may  read  it  if 
you  like." 

"  Tom  began  reading.  "  Betty  Winburn,"  he  said,  when 
he  came  to  the  name,  "  what,  poor  dear  old  Betty  1  why  I've 
known  lier  ever  since  I  was  born.  She  used  to  live  in  our 
parish,  and  I  haven't  seen  her  this  eight  years  nearly.  And 
her  boy  Harry,  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  him?" 

"  You  will  see  if  j^ou  read  on,"  saiil  Mary  ;  and  so  he  read 
to  the  end,  and  then  folded  it  up  and  returned  it. 

"  So  poor  old  Betty  is  dying.  Well  she  was  always  a  good 
soul,  and  very  kind  to  me  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  should  like 
to  see  her  once  again,  and  perhaps  I  might  be  able  to  do  some- 
tiling  for  her  son." 

"  Why  should  we  not  ride  over  to  Englebourn  to-morrow  1 
tliey  will  be  glad  to  get  us  out  of  the  way  while  the  house 
is  being  straightened." 

"  I  should  like  it  of  all  things,  if  it  can  be  managed." 

"  Oh,  I  will  manage  it  somehow,  for  I  must  go  and  se« 
that  dear  Katie.  I  do  feel  so  ashamed  of  myself  when  I 
tliink  of  all  the  good  she  is  doing,  and  I  do  nothing  but  p'lt 
flowers  about,  and  play  the  joiano.    Isn't  she  an  angel,  now  ? " 

"  Of  coiu'se  she  is." 


AMUSEMENTS    AT    BARTON    MANOR.'  331 

"  Yes ;  but  I  \von't  have  that  sort  of  matter-of-course 
acquiescence.  Now,  do  you  really  mean  tliat  Katie  is  as 
good  as  an  angel  1 " 

"  As  seriously  as  if  I  saw  the  wings  growing  out  of  her 
shoulders,  and  dew-drops  hanging  on  them." 

"  You  deserve  to  have  something  not  at  all  like  Avings 
growing  out  of  your  head.  How  is  it  that  you  never  sco 
when  I  don't  want  you  to  talk  your  nonsense  1 " 

"  How  am  I  to  talk  sense  about  angels  1  I  don't  know 
anything  about  them," 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  perfectly.  I  say  that  dear  Katie 
is  an  angel,  and  I  mean  that  I  don't  know  anything  in  her — 
no  not  one  single  thing — which  1  should  like  to  have  changed. 
If  the  angels  are  all  as  good  as  she  " 

"//'/  why  I  shall  begin  to  doubt  your  orthodoxy." 

"  You  don't  know  what  I  was  going  to  say." 

"  It  doesn't  matter  what  you  were  going  to  say.  You 
couldn't  have  brought  that  sentence  to  an  orthodox  conclu- 
sion. Oh,  please  don't  look  angry,  now.  Yes,  I  quite  see 
what  you  mean.  You  can  think  of  Katie  just  as  she  is  now 
in  Heaven  without  being  shocked." 

Mary  paused  for  a  moment  before  she  answered,  as  if  she 
were  rather  taken  by  surprise  at  this  way  of  putting  her 
meaning,  and  then  said  seriously — 

"  Indeed,  I  can.  I  think  we  should  aU  be  perfectly  hapjiy 
if  we  were  all  as  good  as  she  is." 

"  But  she  is  not  very  hapj^y  herself,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Of  course  not.  How  can  she  be,  when  all  the  peo])le 
about  her  are  so  troublesome  and  sellish  1 " 

"  I  can't  fancy  an  angel  the  least  like  Uncle  Eobert,  can 
you?" 

"  I  won't  talk  about  angels  any  more.  You  have  made  me 
feel  quite  as  if  I  had  been  saying  something  Avicked." 

"  Now  really  it  is  too  hard  that  you  should  lay  the  blame 
on  me,  when  you  began  the  subject  yourscK.  You  ought  at 
least  to  let  me  say  what  I  have  to  say  about  angels." 

"  Wby,  you  said  you  knew  nothing  about  them  half  a 
minute  ago." 

"  But  I  may  have  my  notions,  like  other  pec  pie.  You 
have  your  notions.     Katie  is  your  ang(d." 

"  Well,  then,  what  are  your  notions  1 " 

"  Katie  is  rather  too  dark  for  my  idea  of  an  angeh  I  can't 
fancy  a  dark  angeL" 

"  Why,  how  can  you  call  Katie  dark  ?" 

"  I  only  say  she  is  too  dark  for  my  idea  of  an  angel." 

"  Well,  go  on." 


332  TOM   BEOWN   AT   OXFOKD. 

"  Tlien,  she  is  rather  too  grave." 

"  Too  grave  for  an  augel !  " 

"  For  my  idea  of  an  angel — one  doesn't  want  one's  angel 
to  be  like  oneself,  and  I  am  so  grave,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  very.  Then  your  angel  is  to  be  a  laughing  angeL 
A  laughing  angel,  and  yet  very  sensible;  never  talking 
nonsense  1  " 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  say  that." 

"  But  you  said  he  wasn't  to  be  like  you." 

"  He  !  who  in  the  world  do  you  mean  by  he  ?  " 

"  Why,  your  angel,  of  course." 

"  My  angel !  You  don't  really  suppose  that  my  angel  is  to 
be  a  man." 

"  I  have  no  time  to  think  about  it.  Look,  they  are  putting 
those  targets  quite  crooked.  You  are  responsible  for  tlie 
targets ;  we  must  go  and  get  them  straight." 

They  walked  across  the  ground  towards  the  targets,  and 
Tom  settled  them  according  to  his  notions  of  opposites. 

"  After  all,  archery  is  slow  work,"  he  said  when  the  targets 
were  settled  satisfactorily.  "  I  don't  believe  anybody  really 
enjoys  it." 

"  Kovf  that  is  because  you  men  haven't  it  all  to  yourselves. 
You  are  jealous  of  any  sort  of  game  in  which  we  can  join. 
I  believe  you  are  afraid  of  being  beaten  by  us." 

"  On  the  contrary,  that  is  its  only  recommendation,  that 
you  can  join  in  it." 

"  Well,  I  tldnk  that  ought  to  be  recommendation  enough. 
But  I  believe  it  is  much  harder  than  most  of  your  games. 
Y'ou  can't  shoot  half  so  well  as  you  play  cricket,  can  you  ?  " 

"  No,  because  I  never  practise.  It  isn't  exciting  to  be 
walking  up  and  down  between  two  targets,  and  doing  the 
same  thing  over  and  over  again.  Why,  you  don't  find  it  so 
}ourself.     You  hardly  ever  shoot." 

"  Indeed  I  do  though,  constantly." 

"  Why,  I  have  scarcely  ever  seen  you  shooting." 

"  That  is  because  you  are  away  with  the  boys  all  day." 

"  Oh,  I  am  never  too  far  to  know  what  is  going  on.  I'm 
sure  you  have  never  practised  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  any  day  that  I  have  been  here." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  may  not  have.  But  I  tell  you  I  am 
very  fond  of  it." 

Here  the  two  boys  came  up  from  tlie  brook,  l!^eddy  with 
his  Scotch  cap  full  of  crayfish. 

'*  Why,  you  wretched  boys,  where  have  you  been  1  Yon 
are  not  fit  to  be  seen,"  said  ^lary,  sliakiiig  the  arrows  at  them, 
which  she  was  carrying  in  her  Jiaud.     "  Go  and  dress  directly, 


AMUSEMENTS  AT  BARTON  MANOR.       333 

or  yon  will  be  late.  I  think  T  heard  a  carriage  drive  up  just 
now." 

"  Oh,  there's  plenty  of  time.  Look  what  whackers,  Cousin 
Tom,"  said  Charley,  holding  out  one  of  his  prizes  by  its  back 
towards  Tom,  while  the  indignant  cray-fish  flapped  its  tail 
and  worked  about  with  its  claws,  in  the  hopes  of  getting  hold 
of  something  to  pinch. 

"  I  don't  believe  those  boys  have  been  dry  for  two  hours 
together  in  daylight  since  you  first  came  here,"  said  Mary  to 
Tom. 

"  Well,  and  they're  all  the  better  for  it,  I'm  sure,"  said 
Tom. 

"  Yes,  that  we  are,"  said  Charley. 

"  I  say,  Charley,"  said  Tom,  "  your  sister  says  she  is  very 
fond  of  shooting." 

"  Ay,  and  so  she  is.  And  isn't  she  a  good  shot  too  1  I 
believe  she  would  beat  you  at  fifty  yards." 

"  There  now,  you  see,  you  need  not  have  been  so  un- 
believing," said  Mary. 

"  Will  you  give  her  a  shot  at  your  new  hat,  Cousin  Tom  1 " 
said  Neddy. 

"  Yes,  Neddy,  that  I  will ; "  and  he  added  to  Mary,  "  I 
will  bet  you  a  pair  of  gloves  you  don't  hit  it  in  three  shots." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mary  ;  "at  thirty  yards." 

"No,  no  !  fifty  yards  was  the  named  distance." 

"  No,  fifty  yards  is  too  far.  Why,  your  hat  is  not  much 
bigger  than  the  gold." 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  splitting  the  difference ;  we  %vill  say 
forty." 

"  Very  well — three  shots  at  forty  yards." 

"  Yes  ;  here,  Charley,  nm  and  hang  my  hat  on  that  target." 
The  boys  rushed  ofi'  with  the  hat — a  new  white  one — and 
hung  it  with  a  bit  of  string  over  the  centre  of  one  of  the 
targets,  and  then,  stepping  a  little  aside,  stood,  clapping  tlieir 
hands,  shouting  to  Mary  to  take  good  aim. 

"  You  must  string  my  bow,"  she  said,  handing  it  to  him  as 
she  buckled  on  her  guard.  "  Now,  do  you  repent  ?  I  am 
going  to  do  my  best,  mind,  if  I  do  shoot." 

"  I  scorn  repentance  ■  do  your  worst,"  said  Tom,  stringing 
the  bow  and  handing  it  back  to  her."  "And,  now  I  will 
hold  your  arrows ;  here  is  the  forty  j'-ards." 

Mary  came  to  the  place  which  he  had  stepped,  her  eyes  full 
of  fun  and  mischief ;  and  he  sav  at  once  that  she  knew  what 
she  was  about  as  she  took  her  position  and  drew  the  first 
arrow.  It  missed  the  hat  by  some  tki-e«>  inohfrn^only,  and  the 
boys  clapped  and  shouted. 


33  4  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"  Too  near  to  be  pleasant,"  said  Tom,  handing  the  second 
arrow.     "  I  see  you  can  shoot." 

«  Well,  I  will  let  you  off  stiU." 

"  Gloves  and  all  1 " 

"No,  of  course  you  must  pay  the  gloves." 

"  Shoot  away  then.  Ah,  that  will  do,"  he  cried,  as  the 
second  arrow  struck  considerably  above  the  hat,  "  I  shall  get 
my  gloves  yet,"  and  he  lianded  the  third  arroAV.  They  were 
too  intent  on  the  business  in  hand  to  observe  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Porter  and  several  guests  were  already  on  the  hand- 
bridge  which  crossed  the  haw-haw. 

Mary  drew  her  third  arrow,  paused  a  moment,  loosed  it, 
and  this  time  with  fatal  aim. 

The  boys  rushed  to  the  target,  towards  which  INIary  and 
Tom  also  hurried,  i\Ir.  and  Mrs.  Porter  and  the  new  comers 
following  more  quietly. 

*'  Oh,  look  here — what  fun,"  said  Charley,  as  Tom  came 
up,  holding  up  the  hat  spiked  on  the  arrow,  which  ho  had 
drawn  out  of  the  target. 

"  \\niat  a  wicked  sliot,"  he  said,  tnking  the  hat  and  turning 
to  INIary.  "  Look  here,  you  have  actually  gone  through  three 
places — through  crown,  and  side,  and  brim." 

Mary  began  to  feel  quite  sorry  at  her  (^wn  success,  and 
looked  at  the  wounded  hat  sorrowfully. 

"  Hullo,  look  here — here's  papa  and  mamma  and  some 
people,  and  we  ain't  dressed.  Come  along  Neddy,"  and  the 
b<)3's  made  off  towards  the  back  premises,  while  jMary  and 
Tom,  turning  round,  found  themselves  in  the  presence  of 
ISfr.  and  Mrs.  Porter,  Mrs  Brown,  and  two  or  three  other 
fjuests. 


CHAPTER     XXXT. 

BEHIND    THE    SCEN'KS. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown  had  a  long  way  to  di'ive  horar"  that 
evening,  including  some  eight  miles  of  very  inditfcrcnt  chalky 
road  over  the  downs,  which  separate  the  Vale  of  Kennet  from 
the  Vale  of  White  Horse,  ^fr.  Brown  was  an  early  man,  and 
careful  of  his  horses,  who  responded  to  his  care  by  being 
always  well  up  to  much  more  work  than  they  were  ever  put 
to.  The  drive  to  Barton  Manor  and  back  in  a  day  was  a 
rare  event  in  their  lives.  Their  master,  taking  this  fact  into 
consideration,  was  bent  on  giving  them  plenty  of  time  for  the 
return  journey,  and  had  ordered  his  groom  to  be  ready  to 
start  by  eight  o'clock.     But,  that  they  might  not  disturb  the 


BEHIND    THE    SCENES.  335 

rent  by  their  early  departure,  he  had  sent  the  carnage  to  the 
village  inn  instead  of  to  the  Porters'  stables. 

At  the  appointed  time,  therefore,  and  when  the  evening's 
annisements  were  just  beginning  at  the  Uianor  house,  Mr. 
Brown  sought  out  his  wife  ;  and,  after  a  few  words  of  leave- 
taking  to  their  host  and  hostess,  the  two  sli[)ped  quietly 
away,  and  walked  down  the  village.  The  carriage  was  stand- 
ing before  the  inn  all  ready  for  them,  with  the  hostler  and 
]Mr.  Brown's  groom  at  the  horses'  heads.  The  carriage  was  a 
high  phaeton  having  a  roomy  front  seat  with  a  hof^d  to  it, 
specially  devised  by  Mr.  Brown  with  a  view  to  his  wife's 
comfort,  and  that  he  might  with  a  good  conscience  enjoy  at 
the  same  time  the  pleasures  of  her  society  and  of  driving  his 
own  horses.  T\Tien  once  in  her  place  Mrs.  Bro^^^l  was  as 
comfortable  as  she  would  have  been  in  the  most  luxurious 
barouche  with  C  springs,  but  the  ascent  was  certainly  rather 
a  drawback.  The  pleasm'c  of  sitting  by  her  husband  and  of 
receiving  his  assiduous  lielp  in  the  proliminaiy  climb,  how- 
ever, more  than  compensated  to  Mrs.  Brown  for  this  little 
inconvenience. 

Mr.  Brown  helped  her  up  as  usual,  and  arranged  a  plaid 
carefully  over  her  knees,  the  weather  being  too  hot  for  the 
apron.  He  then  proceeded  to  walk  round  the  horses,  patting 
them,  examining  the  bits,  and  making  inquiries  as  to  hoAV 
they  had  fed.  Having  satisfied  himself  on  these  points,  and 
feed  the  hostler,  he  took  the  reins,  seated  himself  by  his  wife, 
and  started  at  a  steady  pace  towards  the  hills  at  the  back  of 
Barton  village. 

For  a  minute  or  two  neither  of  them  spoke,  Mr.  Brown 
being  engro.ssed  with  his  horses  and  she  with  her  thoughts. 
I'rcsently,  however,  he  turned  to  her,  and,  having  ascertained 
that  she  was  quite  comfortable,  went  on — 

"  "Well,  my  dear,  wliat  do  you  think  of  them  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  think  they  are  agreeable  peojile,"  answered  Mrs. 
Brown  ;  "  but  one  can  scarcely  judge  from  seeijig  them  to- 
day. It  is  toe  far  for  a  chive ;  we  shall  not  be  home  till 
midnight." 

"  But  I  am  very  glad  we  came.  After  all  they  are  con- 
nexions through  poor  Robert,  and  he  seems  anxious  that  they 
should  start  well  in  the  county.  Why,  he  has  actually 
Avritten  twice  you  know  about  our  coming  to-day.  We  must 
try  to  show  them  some  civility." 

"  It  is  impossible  to  come  so  far  often,"  ]\Irs.  Brown  per- 
sisted. 

"  It  is  too  far  for  ordinary  visiting.  What  do  you  say  to 
asking  them  to  come  and  spend  a  day  or  two  with  us  ? " 


336  TOM   BEOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,  if  you  wish  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Brc>wn, 
but  witliout  much  cordiality  in  her  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  it ;  and  it  will  please  Eobert  so  much. 
We  might  have  him  and  Katie  over  to  meet  them,  don't  you 
think  1 " 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  much  more  alacrity, 
"  Mr.  and  Mi*s.  Porter  vnW  have  the  best  bedroom  and  dress- 
ing-room ;  Itobert  must  h.ive  the  south  room,  and  Katie  the 
chintz.     Yes,  that  will  do  ;  I  can  manage  it  very  well." 

"And  their  daughter;  you  have  forgotten  her." 

"  Well,  you  see,  dear,  there  is  no  more  room." 

"  Why,  there  is  the  dressing-room,  next  to  the  south  room, 
with  a  bed  in  it.     I'm  sui'e  nobody  can  want  a  better  room." 

"  You  know,  John,  that  Robert  cannot  sleep  if  there  is  tlie 
least  noise.  I  could  never  put  any  one  into  his  dressing- 
room  ;  there  is  only  a  single  door  betAveen  the  rooms,  and, 
even  if  they  made  no  noise,  the  fancy  that  some  one  was 
sleeping  there  would  keep  him  awake  all  night." 

"  Plague  take  his  fancies  !  Robert  has  given  way  to  them 
till  he  is  fit  for  nothing.  But  you  can  put  him  in  the  chintz 
room,  and  give  the  two  girls  the  south  bedroom  and  dressing- 
room." 

"  What,  put  Robert  in  a  room  which  looks  north  1  My 
dear  John,  what  can  you  be  thinking  about  1 " 

Mr.  BroAvn  uttered  an  impatient  grunt,  and,  as  a  vent  to 
his  feelings  more  decorous  on  the  whole  than  abusing  his 
brother-in-law,  drew  his  whip  more  smartly  than  usual  across 
the  backs  of  his  horses.  The  exertion  of  muscle  necessary  to 
reduce  those  astonished  animals  to  their  accustomed  steady 
trot  restored  his  temper,  and  he  returned  to  the  charge — 

"  I  suppose  we  must  manage  it  on  the  second  floor,  then, 
unless  you  could  get  a  bed  run  up  in  the  school-room." 

"  No,  dear  ;  I  really  should  not  like  to  do  that — it  M'ould 
be  so  very  inconvenient.  We  are  always  wanting  the  room 
for  workwomen  or  servants :  besides,  I  keep  my  account- 
books  and  other  things  there." 

"  Then  I'm  afraid  it  must  be  on  the  second  floor.  Some  ol 
the  children  must  be  moved.  The  girl  seems  a  nice  girl,  with 
no  nonsense  about  her,  and  won't  mind  sleeping  up  there. 
Or,  why  not  put  Katie  upstaii-s  1 " 

"  Indeed,  I  should  not  think  of  it.  Katie  is  a  dear  good 
girl,  and  I  vdll  not  put  any  one  over  her  head." 

"  Nor  I,  dear.  On  the  contrary,  I  was  asking  you  to  put 
her  over  another  person's  head,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  laughing  at 
his  own  joke.  This  unu'-ual  reluctance  on  the  part  of  his 
wife  to  assist  in  carrying  out  any  hospitable  plans  of  his  began 


BEHIND   THE   SCENES.  337 

to  strike  liim  ;  so,  not  being  an  adept  at  concealing  his 
thonglits,  or  gaining  his  point  by  any  attack  except  a  direct 
one,  after  driA'ing  on  for  a  minute  in  silence,  he  tui'ned  sud- 
denly on  his  wife,  and  said, — 

"  Why,  Lizzie,  you  seem  not  to  want  to  ask  the  girl  V 

"  Well,  John,  I  do  not  see  the  need  of  it  at  all." 

"  No,  and  you  don't  want  to  ask  her  1  " 

"  If  you  must  know,  then,  I  do  not." 

'■'  Don't  you  like  her  1  " 

"  I  do  not  know  her  well  enough  either  to  like  or  dis 
like." 

"  Then,  why  not  ask  her,  and  see  what  she  is  like  1  But 
the  truth  is,  Liz;de,  you  have  taken  a  prejudice  against  her." 

"  Well,  John,  I  think  she  is  a  thoughtless  girl,  and  extra- 
vagant ;  not  the  sort  of  girl,  in  fact,  that  I  should  wish  to  be 
much  with  us." 

"Thoughtless  and  extravagant !  "  said  Mr.  Brown,  looking 
grave  ;  "  how  you  women  can  be  so  sharp  on  one  another ! 
Her  dress  seemed  to  me  simple  and  pretty,  and  her  manners 
very  lady-like  and  pleasing." 

"  You  seem  to  have  quite  forgotten  about  Tom's  hat," 
said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Tom's  white  hat — so  I  had,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  and  ho 
relapsed  into  a  low  laugh  at  the  remembrance  of  the  scene. 
"  I  call  that  his  extravagance,  and  not  hers." 

"  It  was  a  new  hat,  and  a  verj''  expensive  one,  which  he 
had  bought  for  the  vacation,  and  it  is  quite  spoilt." 

"  Well,  my  dear ;  really,  if  Tom  will  let  girls  shoot  at  his 
hats,  he  must  take  the  consequences.  He  must  wear  it  with 
the  holes,  or  buy  another." 

"  How  can  he  afford  another,  John  ?  you  know  how  poor 
he  is." 

]Mr.  Bro^^'Tl  drove  on  now  for  several  minutes  without  speak- 
ing. He  knew  perfectly  well  what  his  wife  was  coming  to 
now,  and,  after  weighing  in  his  mind  the  alternatives  of 
accepting  battle  or  making  sail  and  changing  the  subject 
altogether,  said, — 

"  You  know,  my  dear,  he  has  brought  it  on  himself.  A 
headlong,  generous  sort  of  j'oungster,  like  Tom,  must  be  taught 
early  that  he  can't  have  his  cake  and  eat  his  cake.  If  he 
likes  to  lend  his  money,  he  must  find  out  that  he  hasn't  it  to 
spend." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  quite  agree  with  you.  But  50^.  a  year  is  a 
great  deal  to  make  him  pay." 

"  Not  a  bit  too  much,  Lizzie.  His  allowance  is  quite  enough 
without  it  to  keep  him  like  a  gentleman.     Besides,  after  all. 

z 


338  TOM   BBOWN    AT   OXFOKD. 

he  gets  it  in  meal  or  in  malt ;  I  have  just  paid  25^,  for  his 

"  I  know  how  kind  and  liberal  you  are  to  him  ;  only  I  am 
so  afraid  of  his  getting  into  debt." 

"  I  wonder  what  men  would  do,  if  they  hadn't  some  soft- 
hearted woman  always  ready  to  take  their  parts  and  pull  them 
out  of  scrapes,"  said  Mr.  Brown.  "  Well,  dear,  how  much 
do  you  want  to  give  the  boy  !  " 

"  Twenty-five  pounds,  just  for  this  year.  But  out  of  my 
own  allowance,  John." 

"  Nonsense  ! "  replied  Mr.  Brown ;  "  you  want  your  al- 
lowance for  yourself  and  the  children." 

"  Indeed,  dear  John,  I  would  sooner  not  do  it  at  all,  then, 
if  I  may  not  do  it  out  of  my  own  money." 

"  Well,  have  it  your  own  way.  I  believe  you  would  always 
look  well  dressed,  if  you  never  bought  another  gown.  Then, 
to  go  back  to  what  we  were  talking  about  just  now — ^you  will 
find  a  room  for  the  girl  somehow  1 " 

"  Yes,  dear,  certainly,  as  I  see  you  are  bent  on  it." 
*    "  I  think  it  would  be  scarcely  civU  not  to  Ask  her,  especially 
if  Katie  comes.     And  I  own   I  think  her  very  pretty,  and 
have  taken  a  great  fancy  to  her." 

"  Isn't  it  odd  that  Tom  should  never  have  said  anything 
about  her  to  us  ]  He  has  talked  of  all  the  rest  till  I  knew 
them  quite  weU  before  I  went  there." 

"  ijfo ;  it  seems  to  me  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world." 

"  Yes,  dear,  very  natural.  But  I  can't  help  wishing  he  had 
talked  about  her  more ;  I  should  think  it  less  dangerous." 

"  Oh,  you  think  Master  Tom  is  in  love  with  her,  eh  1 " 
said  Mr.  Brown,  laughing. 

"  More  unlikely  things  have  happened.  You  take  it  very 
easily,  John." 

"  Well,  we  have  all  been  boys  and  girls,  Lizzie.  The  world 
hasn't  altered  much,  I  suppose,  since  I  used  to  get  up  at  five 
on  winter  mornings,  to  ride  some  twenty  miles  to  cover,  on 
the  chance  of  meeting  a  young  lady  on  a  grey  pony.  I 
remember  how  my  poor  dear  old  father  used  to  wonder  at  it, 
when  our  hounds  met  close  by,  in  a  better  country.  I'm 
afraid  I  forgot  to  tell  him  what  a  pretty  creature  '  Gipsy ' 
was,  and  how  well  she  was  ridden." 

"But  Tom  is  only  twenty,  and  he  must  go  into  a  pro- 
fession." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  much  too  young,  I  know — too  young  for  any- 
thing serious.  We  had  better  see  them  together,  and  then, 
if  there  is  anything  in  it,  we  can  keep  them  apart.  There 
cannot  be  much  the  matter  yet." 


BEHIND   THE   SCEjSliS.  389 

"  Well,  dear,  if  you  are  satisfied,  I  am  sure  I  am." 

And  so  the  conversation  turned  on  other  subjects,  and  Mr. 
and  ]\lrs.  Brown  enjoyed  their  moonlight  drive  home  through 
the  delicious  summer  night,  and  were  quite  sorry  when  the 
groom  got  down  from  the  hind-seat  to  open  their  own  gates, 
at  half-past  twelve. 

About  the  same  time  the  festivities  at  Barton  Manor  were 
coming  to  a  close.  There  had  been  cold  dinner  in  the  tent  at 
six,  after  the  great  match  of  the  day  ;  and,  after  dinner,  the 
announcement  of  the  scores,  and  the  distribution  of  prizes  to 
the  winners.  A  certain  amount  of  toasts  and  speechifying 
followed,  which  the  ladies  sat  through  with  the  most  ex- 
emplary appearance  of  being  amused.  When  their  healths 
had  been  proposed  and  acknowledged,  they  retired,  and  were 
soon  followed  by  the  younger  portion  of  the  male  sex  ;  and, 
while  the  J.P.'s  and  clergymen  sat  quietly  at  their  wine, 
which  Mr.  Porter  took  care  should  be  remarkably  good,  and 
their  wives  went  in  to  look  over  the  house  and  have  tea,  their 
sons  and  daughters  split  up  into  groups,  and  some  shot  handi-v. 
caps,  and  some  walked  about  anil  flirted,  and  some  played  at 
bowls  or  lawn  billiards.  And  soon  the  band  appeared  again 
from  the  servants'  hall,  mightily  refreshed ;  and  dancing 
began  on  the  grass,  and  in  due  time  was  transferred  to  the 
tent,  when  the  grass  got  damp  with  the  night  dew  ;  and  then 
to  the  hall  of  the  house,  when  the  lighting  of  tlie  tent  began 
to  faU.  And  then  there  came  a  supper,  extemporizeil  out  of 
the  remains  of  the  duiner ;  after  which,  papas  and  mammas 
began  to  look  at  their  w^atches,  and  remonstrate  with  daugh- 
ters, coming  up  with  sparkling  eyes  and  hair  a  little  shaken 
out  of  place,  and  pleading  for  "just  one  more  dance."  "You 
have  been  going  on  ever  since  one  o'clock,"  remonstrated  the 
parents ;  "  And  are  ready  to  go  on  till  one  to-morrow," 
replied  the  chUdi'en.  By  degrees,  however,  the  frequent  sound 
of  wheels  was  heard,  and  the  dancers  got  thinner  and 
thimier,  till,  for  the  last  half-hour,  some  half-dozen  couples 
of  young  people  danced  an  internnnable  reel,  while  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Porter,  and  a  few  of  the  most  good-natured  matrons  of 
the  neighbourhood  looked  on.  Soon  after  midnight  the  band 
struck  ;  no  amount  of  negus  coidd  get  anything  more  out 
of  them  but  "  God  save  the  Queen,"  which  they  accordingly 
played  and  departed  ;  and  then  came  the  final  cloaking  and 
driving  olf  of  the  last  guests.  Tom  and  ^Mary  saw  tlie  last  of 
them  into  their  carriage  at  the  hall-door,  and  lingered  a 
moment  Ln  the  porch. 

"  What  a  lov(!ly  night !  "  said  Mary.  "  How  I  hate  going 
to  bed  ! " 

2  '2 


340  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"  It  is  a  dreadful  bore,"  answered  Tom  ;  "  but  here  is  the 
butler  waiting  to  shut  up  ;  we  must  go  in." 
"  I  wonder  where  papa  and  mamma  ^e." 

"  Oh,  they  are  only  seeing  things  put  a  little  to  rights. 
Let  us  sit  here  till  they  come ;  they  must  pass  by  to  get  to 
their  rooms." 

So  the  two  sat  down  on  some  hall  chairs. 

"  Oh  dear  ! "  I  wish  it  were  all  coming  over  again  to- 
morrow," said  Tom,  leaning  back,  and  lookmg  up  at  the 
ceiling.  "  By  the  way,  remember  I  owe  you  a  pair  of  gloves; 
what  colour  shall  they  be  1 " 

"  Any  colour  you  like.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it.  I  fell 
so  dreadfully  ashamed  when  they  all  came  up,  and  your 
mother  looked  so  grave  ;  I  am  sure  she  was  very  angry." 

"  Poor  mother !  she  was  thinking  of  my  hat  with  three 
arrow-holes  in  it." 

"Well,  I  am  very  sorry,  because  I  wanted  them  to  like 
me." 

"And  so  they  wiU  ;  I  should  like  to  know  who  can  help  it." 

"  Now,  I  won't  have  any  of  your  nonsensical  compliments. 
Do  you  think  they  enjoyed  the  day  1  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure  they  did.  My  father  said  he  had  nevei 
liked  an  archery  meethig  so  much." 

"  But  they  went  away  so  early." 

"  They  had  a  very  long  drive,  you  know.  Let  me  see," 
he  said,  feeling  in  his  breast-pocket,  "  mother  left  me  a  note, 
and  I  have  never  looked  at  it  till  now."  He  took  a  slip  of 
paper  out  and  read  it,  and  his  face  fell. 

"  What  is  it  t "  said  Mary,  leaning  forward. 

"  Oh,  nothing  ;  only  I  must  go  to-morrow  morning." 

"  There,  I  was  sure  she  was  angry." 

"  No,  no  ;  it  was  written  this  morning  before  she  came 
here.     I  can  tell  by  the  paper." 

"  But  she  will  not  let  you  stay  here  a  day,  you  see." 

"  I  have  been  here  a  good  deal,  considering  all  things,  I 
should  like  never  to  go  away." 

"  Perhaps  papa  might  hnd  a  place  for  you,  if  you  asked 
him.  Which  should  you  like, — to  be  tutor  to  the  boys,  or 
gamekeeper  1 " 

"  On  the  whole,  I  should  prefer  the  tutorship  at  present ; 
you  take  so  much  interest  in  the  boys." 

"  Yes,  because  they  have  no  one  to  look  after  them  now 
in  the  holidays.  But,  when  you  come  as  tutor,  I  shall  wash 
my  hands  of  them." 

"  Then  I  shall  decline  the  situation." 

"  How  are  you  going  home  to-morrov.'  1 " 


BEHIND   THE    SCENES.  341 

*'  I  shall  ride  round  by  Englebourn.  They  wish  Bie  to  gc 
round  and  see  Katie  and  Uncle  Robert.  You  talked  about 
riding  over  there  yourself  this  morning." 

"  I  should  like  it  so  much.  Bat  how  can  we  manage  it  1 
I  can't  ride  back  again  by  myself." 

"  Couldn't  you  stay  and  sleep  there  1 " 

*'  I  will  ask  mamma.  No,  I'm  afraid  it  can  hardly  bo 
managed  ; "  and  so  saying,  Mary  leant  back  in  her  chair,  and 
began  to  pull  to  pieces  some  flowers  she  held  in  her  hand. 

"  Don't  pull  them  to  pieces  ;  give  them  to  me,"  said  Tom. 
"  I  have  kept  the  rosebud  you  gave  mo  at  Oxford,  folded  up 
in  " 

"  AYliich  you  took,  you  mean  to  say.  'No,  I  won't  give 
you  any  of  them — or,  let  me  see — yes,  here  is  a  sprig  of 
lavender  ;  you  may  have  that." 

''  Thank  you.     But,  why  lavender  ? " 

"  Lavender  stands  for  sincerity.  It  will  remind  you  of  the 
lecture  you  gave  me." 

"  I  "wish  you  would  forget  that.  But  you  know  what 
flowers  mean,  then  1  Do  give  me  a  lecture  :  j'ou  owe  me  one. 
"Wliat  do  those  flowers  mean  which  you  will  not  give  me, — 
the  piece  of  heather  for  instance  1 " 

"  Heather  signifies  constancy." 

*'  And  the  carnations  1 " 

"  Jealousy." 

"  And  the  heliotrope  1 " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  the  heliotrope." 

"  But  it  is  such  a  favourite  of  mine.  Do  tell  me  whr.t 
it  means  1 " 

"  Je  vous  aime,"  said  Mary,  with  a  laugh,  and  a  sliglit 
blush  ;  "  it  is  all  nonsense.  Oh,  here's  mamma  at  last,"  and 
she  jumped  up  and  went  to  meet  her  mother,  who  came  out 
of  the  drawing-room,  candle  in  hand. 

"  My  dear  JNIary,  I  thought  you  were  gone  to  bed,"  said 
^Irs.  Porter,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  seriously. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  the  least  tired,  and  I  couldn't  go  without 
wishing  you  and  papa  good  night,  and  thanking  you  for  all 
the  trouble  you  have  taken." 

"  Indeed,  we  ought  all  to  thank  you,"  said  Tom  ;  "  every- 
body said  it  was  the  pleasantest  party  they  had  ever  been  at." 

"I  am  very  glad  it  Avent  off  well,"  said  Mrs.  Porter, 
gravely  ;  "  and  now,  Mary,  you  must  go  to  bed." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  leave  you  to-morrow  morning,"  said 
Tom. 

"  Yes  ;  Mrs.  Brown  said  they  expect  you  at  homo  tc- 
tiorrow." 


342  TOM   BROWN  AT   OXFORD. 

"  T  am  to  ride  round  by  Uncle  Robert's  ;  would  you  like 
one  of  the  boys  to  go  with  me  1 " 

"  Oh,  dear  mamma,  could  not  Charley  and  I  ride  over  to 
Englebourn  1     I  do  so  long  to  see  Katie." 

"  No,  dear ;  it  is  much  too  far  for  you.  "We  will  drive 
over  in  a  few  days'  time." 

And,  so  saying,  Mrs.  Porter  wished  Tom  good  night,  and 
led  off  her  daughter. 

Tom  went  slowly  up  stairs  to  his  room,  and,  after  packing 
his  portmanteau  for  the  carrier  to  take  in  the  morning,  threw 
up  bis  window  and  leant  out  into  the  night,  and  watched  the 
light  clouds  swimming  over  the  moon,  and  the  silver  mist 
folding  the  water-meadows  and  willows  in  its  soft  cool  mantle. 
His  thoughts  were  such  as  will  occur  to  any  reader  who  has 
passed  the  witching  age  of  twenty  ;  and  the  scent  of  the 
lieliotrope-bed,  in  the  flower-garden  below,  seemed  to  rise  very 
strongly  on  the  night  air. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

A    CKISIS. 

In  the  forenoon  of  the  following  day  Tom  rode  slowly  along 
the  street  of  Englebourn  towards  the  Rectory  gate.  He  had 
left  P>arton  soon  after  breakfast,  without  having  been  able 
to  exchange  a  word  with  ]\Iary  except  in  the  presence  of  her 
mother,  and  yet  he  had  felt  more  anxious  than  ever  before  at 
least  to  say  good  bye  to  her  without  witnesses.  With  this 
view  he  had  been  up  early,  and  had  whistled  a  tune  in  the 
hall,  and  held  a  loud  conversation  with  the  boys,  who  ap- 
peared half-dressed  in  the  gallery  above,  while  he  brushed 
the  dilapidated  white  hat,  to  let  all  whom  it  might  concern 
know  that  he  was  on  the  move.  Then  he  had  walked  up  and 
down  the  garden  in  full  view  of  the  windows  till  the  bell 
rang  for  prayers.  He  was  in  the  breakfast-room  before  the 
bell  had  done  ringing,  and  Mrs.  Porter,  followed  by  her 
daughter,  entered  at  the  same  moment.  He  could  not  help 
fancying  that  the  conversation  at  breakfast  was  a  little  con- 
strained, and  particularly  remarked  that  nothing  was  said  by 
the  heads  of  the  family  when  the  boys  vociferously  bewailed 
his  approaching  departure,  and  tried  to  get  him  to  name 
some  day  for  his  return  before  their  holidays  ended.  Instead 
of  encouraging  the  idea,  Mrs.  Porter  reminded  Neddy  and 
Charley  that  they  had  only  ten  days  more,  and  had  not  yet 
looked  at  the  work  they  had  to  do  for  their  tutor  in  the 


A  CRISIS.  343 

holidays.  Inniiediatply  after  breakfast  'Mrs.  Porter  liad  wished 
him  good  bye  herself  very  kindly,  but  (he  coiild  not  help 
thinking)  without  that  aii-  of  near  relationship  which  he  had 
flattered  himself  was  well  established  between  himself  and  all 
the  members  of  the  Porter  family  ;  and  then  she  had  added, 
"  Now,  ]\Iary,  you  must  say  good  bye ;  I  want  you  to  come 
and  help  me  with  some  work  this  morning."  He  had  scarcely- 
looked  at  her  all  the  morning,  and  now  one  shake  of  the 
hand  and  sh.e  was  spirited  away  in  a  moment,  and  he  was 
left  standing,  dissatisfied  and  uncomfortable,  with  a  sense  of 
incompl«teness  in  his  mind,  and  as  if  he  had  had  a  thread 
in  his  life  suddenly  broken  off  which  he  could  not  tell  how 
to  get  joined  again. 

However,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  get  off.  He  had 
no  excuse  for  delay,  and  had  a  long  ride  before  him ;  so  he 
and  the  boys  went  round  to  the  stable.  On  theu'  passage 
through  the  garden  the  idea  of  picking  a  nosegay  and  sending 
it  to  her  by  one  of  the  boys  came  into  his  head.  He  gathered 
tlie  flowers,  but  then  thought  better  of  it,  and  threw  them 
away.  What  right,  after  all,  had  he  to  be  sending  flowers  to 
her — above  all,  flowers  to  whicli  they  had  attached  a  mean- 
ing, jokingly  it  was  true,  but  still  a  meaning  1  l^o,  he  had 
no  right  to  do  it ;  it  would  not  be  fair  to  her,  or  her  father 
or  mother,  after  the  kind  way  in  which  they  had  all  received 
him.  So  he  tlirew  away  the  flowers,  and  mounted  and  rode 
off,  watched  by  the  boys,  who  Avaved  their  straw  hats  as  he 
looked  back  just  before  coming  to  a  turn  in  the  road  which 
would  take  him  out  of  sight  of  the  Manor  House.  Ho  rode 
along  at  a  foot's  pace  for  some  time,  thinking  over  the  events 
of  the  past  week  ;  and  then,  beginning  to  feel  purposeless, 
and  somewhat  melancholy,  urged  his  horse  into  a  smart  trot 
along  the  waste  land  which  skirted  the  road.  But,  go  what 
pace  he  would,  it  mattered  not ;  he  could  not  leave  his 
thoughts  behind.  So  he  pulled  up  again  after  a  mile  or  so, 
slackened  his  reins,  and,  leaving  his  horse  to  pick  his  own 
way  along  the  road,  betook  himself  to  the  serious  considera- 
tion of  his  position. 

The  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  discontented  he  be- 
came, and  tlie  day  clouded  over  as  if  to  suit  his  temper.  He 
felt  as  if  within  the  last  twenty- four  hours  he  had  been  some- 
how unwarrantably  interfered  with.  His  mother  and  Mrs, 
Porter  had  both  been  planning  something  about  him,  he  felt 
sure.  If  they  had  anything  to  say,  why  couldn't  they  say  it 
out  to  him  1  But  what  could  there  be  to  say  1  Couldn't  he 
and  Mary  be  trusted  together  without  making  fools  of  them- 
selves^    He  did  not  stop  to  analyse  his  feehngs  towards  her, 


341:  TOM   BKOWN   AT   OXFOKD. 

or  to  consider  vvhother  it  was  very  prudent  or  desirable  for  her 
that  they  should  be  thrown  so  constantly  and  unreservedly 
together.  He  was  too  much  taken  up  with  what  he  chose  to 
consider  his  own  wrongs  for  any  such  consideration. — "  Why 
can't  they  let  me  alone  1 "  was  the  question  which  he  asktsd 
himself  perpetually,  and  it  seemed  to  him  the  most  reasonalj'e 
one  in  the  world,  and  that  no  satisfactory  answer  was  possible 
to  it,  except  that  he  ought  to  be,  and  should  be,  let  alone. 
And  so  at  last  he  rode  along  Englebourn  street,  convinced  tliat 
what  he  bad  to  do  before  all  other  things  just  now  was  to 
assert  himsoK  properly,  and  show  every  one,  even  his  own 
mother,  that  he  was  no  longer  a  boy  to  be  managed  according 
to  any  one's  fancies  except  his  own. 

He  rode  straight  to  the  stables  and  loosed  the  girths  of  his 
liorse,  and  gave  particular  directions  about  grooming  and  feed- 
ing him,  and  stayed  in  the  stall  for  some  minutes  rubbing  his 
ears  and  fondling  him.  Tlie  antagonism  which  possessed  him 
for  the  moment  against  mankind  perhaps  made  him  appreciate 
the  value  uf  his  relations  with  a  well-tj'ained  beast.  Then  he 
went  round  to  the  house  and  inquired  for  his  uncle.  He  had 
not  been  in  Engleboiun  for  some  years,  and  the  servant  did 
not  know  him,  and  answered  that  Mr.  Winter  was  not  out  of 
his  room  and  nevei  oaw  strangers  till  the  afternoon.  Where 
was  Lliss  Winter,  then  1  She  was  down  the  \'illage  at  Widow 
Winburn's,  and  he  couldn't  tell  when  she  would  be  back,  the 
man  said.  The  contents  of  Katie's  note  of  the  day  before  had 
gone  out  of  his  head,  but  the  mention  of  Betty's  name  re- 
called them,  and  with  them  something  of  the  kindly  feeling 
which  had  stirred  withiu  him  on  bearing  of  her  illness.  So, 
saying  he  woidd  call  later  to  see  his  uncle,  he  started  again  to 
find  the  widow's  cottage,  and  his  cousin. 

The  servant  had  directed  liim  to  the  last  house  in  the 
village,  but,  when  he  got  outside  of  the  gate,  there  were 
houses  in  two  dii-ections.  He  looked  about  for  some  one 
from  whom  to  inquire  further,  and  his  eye  fell  upon  our  old 
acquaintance,  the  constable,  coming  out  of  his  door  with  a 
parcel  under  his  arm. 

The  little  man  was  in  a  brown  study,  and  did  not  notice 
Tom's  first  address.  He  was  in  fact  anxiously  tliinking  over 
his  old  friend's  illness  and  her  son's  trouble  ;  and  was  on  his 
way  to  farmer  Groves's,  (having  luckily  the  excuse  of  taking 
a  coat  to  be  tried  on)  in  the  hopes  of  getting  him  to  intei>^ 
fere  and  patch  up  the  quarrel  between  young  Tester  ana 
Harry. 

Tom's  first  salute  had  been  friendly  enough  ;  no  one  knew 
better  how  to  speak  to    the   poor,  amongst  whom   he    had 


A  ci'jsis,  345 

livod  all  liis  life,  than  lie.  But,  not  getting  any  answer, 
and  being  in  a  touchy  state  of  mind,  he  was  put  out,  and 
shouted — 

"  Hullo,  my  man,  can't  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  Ees,  I  beant  duuch,"  replied  the  constable,  turning  and 
looking  at  his  questioner. 

"  I  thought  you  were,  for  I  spoke  loud  enough  before. 
Wliich  is  Mrs.  Winburn's  cottage  1  " 

"The  furdest  house  down  ther,"  he  said,  pointing,  "'tis  in 
my  way  if  you've  a  mind  to  come."  Tom  accepted  the  oircr 
and  walked  along  by  tlie  constable. 

"Mrs.  Winburn  is  ill,  isn't  she?"  he  asked,  after  look-Eg 
his  guide  over. 

"  Ees,  her  be — terrible  bad,"  said  the  constable. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  her,  do  yon  know?" 

"  Zummat  o'  fits,  I  hears.  Her've  had  'em  this  six  year, 
on  and  off."' 

"  I  suppose  it's  dangerous.  I  mean  she  isn't  likely  to  got 
well  V 

"  'Tis  in  the  Lord's  hands,"  replied  the  constable,  "  but 
her's  that  bad  wi'  pain,  at  times,  'twould  be  a  mussy  ii"  'twoud 
plaase  He  to  tak'  her  out  on't." 

"  Perhaps  she  mightn't  think  so,"  said  Tom,  superciliouslj^ ; 
he  was  not  in  the  mind  to  agree  with  any  one.  The  con- 
stable looked  at  him  solemnly  for  a  moment  aiid  then  said — ■ 

"  Her's  been  a  God-fearin'  woman  from  her  youth  up,  and 
her's  had  a  deal  o'  trouble.  Thaay  as  the  Lord  loveth  He 
chasteueth,  and  'tisn't  such  as  thaay  as  is  afeard  to  go  afore 
Him." 

"  Well,  I  never  found  that  having  troubles  made  people  a 
bit  more  anxious  to  get  '  out  on't,'  as  you  call  it,"  said  Tom. 

"  It  don't  seem  to  me  as  you  can  'a  had  much  o'  trouble  to 
judge  by,"  said  the  constable,  who  was  beginning  to  be 
nettled  by  Tom's  manner. 

"  How  can  you  tell  that  ?" 

"  Leastways  'twould  be  whoam-made,  then,"  persisted  the 
constable  ;  "  and  ther's  a  sight  o'  odds  atween  whoam-made 
troubles  and  thaay  as  the  Lord  sends." 

"  So  there  may  ;  but  I  may  have  seen  both  sorts  for  any- 
thing you  can  tell." 

"  Nay,  nay ;  the  Lord's  troubles  leaves  His  marks." 

*'  And  you  don't  see  any  of  tJiem  in  my  face,  eh  1" 

The  constable  jerked  his  head  after  his  own  peculiar  fashion, 
but  declined  to  reply  directly  to  tliis  interrogat^gry.  lie 
parried  it  by  one  of  his  own. 

"  In  the  doctorin'  line,  make  so  bould  1 " 


346  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"  No,"  said  Tom,  "  You  don't  seem  to  have  such  very 
good  eyes,  after  all." 

"  Oh,  I  seed  you  wasn't  old  enough  to  be  doin'  for  your- 
self, like  ;  but  I  thought  you  med  ha'  been  a  'sistant,  or 
summat." 

"  Well,  then,  you're  just  mistaken,"  said  Tom,  considerably 
disgusted  at  being  taken  for  a  country  doctor's  assistant. 

"I  ax  your  pardon,"  said  the  constable.  "But  if  yea 
beant  in  the  doctorin'  line,  what  be  gwine  to  Widow  Winburn  s 
for,  make  so  bould?" 

"  That's  my  look  out,  I  suppose,"  said  Tom,  almost  angrily. 
"  That's  the  house,  isn't  it  ? "  and  he  pointed  to  the  cottage, 
already  described,  at  the  corner  of  Eugleboxirn  Copse. 

«  Ees." 

"  Good  day,  then." 

"  Good  day,"  muttered  the  constable,  not  at  all  satisfied 
with  this  abrupt  close  of  the  conversation,  but  to3  unready  to 
prolong  it.  He  went  on  his  own  way  slowly,  looking  back 
often,  till  he  saw  the  door  oj^en ;  after  which  he  seemed 
better  satisfied,  and  ambled  out  of  sight. 

"  The  old  snuftler !"  thought  Tom,  as  he  strode  up  to  the 
cottage  door — "  a  ranter,  I'll  be  bound,  M'ith  his  '  Lord's 
troubles,'  and  '  Lord's  hands,'  and  '  Lord's  marks.'  I  hope 
Uncle  Robert  hasn't  many  such  in  the  parish." 

He  knocked  at  the  cottage  door,  and  in  a  few  seconds  it 
opened  gently,  and  Katie  slipped  out  with  her  finger  on  her 
lips.  She  made  a  slight  gesture  of  surprise  at  seeing  him,  and 
held  out  her  hand. 

"Hush!"  she  said,  "she  is  asleep.  You  are  not  in  a 
hurry?" 

"No,  not  particularly,"  he  answered,  abruptly  ;  fi>r  there 
was  something  in  her  voice  and  manner  wliich  jarred  with  his 
humour. 

"Hush!"  she  said  again,  "you  must  not  speak  so  loud. 
We  can  sit  down  here,  and  talk  quietly.  I  shall  hear  if  she 
moves." 

So  he  sat  down  opposite  to  her  in  the  little  porch  of  the 
cottage.  She  left  tlie  door  ajar,  so  that  she  might  catch  the 
least  movement  of  her  patient,  and  then  turned  to  him  with  a 
bright  smile,  and  said, — 

"  Well,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  !  'NYliat  good  wind  blows 
you  here  1 " 

"  No    particxilarly    good    wind,    that    I    know    of.       Mary 
showed  me  your  letter  yesterday,  and  mother  wished  me  to 
come  round  here  on  my  way  home  ;  aud  so  here  I  am." 
"  And  how  did  the  party  go  off !    I  long  to  hear  about  iL" 


A  CTvisis.  347 

"  Very  well  ;  half  the  couiitj^  -svere  there,  and  it  was  all 
Very  well  done." 

"  And  how  did  dear  ^Mary  look  1 " 

"Oh,  just  as  usual.  But  now,  Katie,  why  didn't  you 
come  1     Mary  and  all  of  us  were  so  disappointed." 

"  I  thought  you  read  my  letter  ?  " 

"  Yes,  so  I  did." 

"  Then  you  know  the  reason." 

"  I  don't  call  it  a  reason.  Koally,  you  have  no  right  to 
shut  yourself  up  from  everything.  You  will  he  getting 
moped  to  death." 

•'  But  do  I  look  moped  1 "  she  said  ;  and  he  looked  at  her, 
and  couldn't  help  admitting  to  himself,  reluctantly,  that  she 
did  not.     So  he  re-oj)ened  fire  from  another  point. 

"  You  will  wear  yourself  out,  nursing  every  old  woman  in 
the  parish." 

"  But  I  don't  nurse  every  old  woman." 

"  Why,  there  is  no  one  here  but  you  to-day,  now,"  he  said, 
with  a  motion  of  his  head  towards  the  cottage. 

"  No,  because  I  have  let  the  regular  nurse  go  home  for  a 
few  hours.  Besides,  this  is  a  special  case.  You  don't  know 
what  a  dear  old  soul  Betty  is." 

"  Yes,  I  do  ;  I  remember  her  ever  since  I  was  a  child." 

"  Ah,  I  forgot ;  I  have  often  heard  her  talk  of  you.  Then 
you  ought  not  to  be  surprised  at  anything  I  may  do  for  her." 

"  She  is  a  good,  kind  old  woman,  I  know.  But  still  I 
must  say,  Katie,  you  ought  to  think  of  your  friends  and 
relations  alittle,  and  what  you  owe  to  society." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  think  of  my  friends  and  relations  very  much, 
and  I  should  have  liked,  of  all  things,  to'  have  been  w'ith 
you  yesterday.  You  ought  to  be  pitying  me,  instead  of 
scolding  me." 

"  My  dear  Katie,  you  know  I  didn't  mean  to  scold  you  ; 
and  nobody  admires  the  way  you  give  yourself  up  to  visiting, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  more  than  I ;  only  you  ought  to 
have  a  little  pleasure  sometimes.  People  have  a  right  to 
think  of  themselves  and  their  own  happiness  a  little." 

"  Perhaps  I  don't  find  visiting  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  so 
very  miserable.  But  now,  Tom,  you  saw  in.  my  letter  that 
poor  Betty's  son  has  got  into  trouble  1  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  that  is  what  brought  on  her  attack,  you  said." 

"  I  believe  so.  She  was  in  a  sad  state  about  him  all  yester- 
day,— so  painfidly  eager  and  anxious.  She  is  better  to-day  ; 
but  still  I  think  it  would  do  her  good  if  you  would  see  her, 
and  say  you  will  be  a  friend  to  her  son.     Would  you  mind  1 " 

"  It  was  just  what  I  wished  to  do  yesterday.     I  will  do  all 


348  TOM    BEOWN   AT    OXFOKD. 

I  can  for  liiiii,  I'm  sure.  I  always  liked  him  as  a  boy  ;  yon 
can  tell  her  that.  But  I  don't  feel,  somehow — to-day,  at 
least — as  if  I  could  do  any  good  by  seeing  her." 

"  Oh,  why  not  ?  " 

"  1  don't  think  I'm  in  the  right  humour.    Is  she  very  ill  ? " 

"  Yes,  very  ill  indeed  ;  I  don't  think  she  can  recover." 

"  Well,  you  see,  Katie,  I'm  not  used  to  death-beds.  I 
shouldn't  say  the  right  sort  of  thing." 

"  How  do  you  mean — the  right  sort  of  thing  1 " 

**  Oh,  you  know.  I  couldn't  talk  to  her  about  her  soul. 
I'm  not  fit  for  it,  and  it  isn't  my  place." 

*'  No,  indeed,  it  isn't.  But  you  can  remind  her  of  old 
times,  and  say  a  kind  word  about  her  son." 

"  A^ery  well,  if  you  don't  think  I  shall  do  any  harm." 

"  I'm  sure  it  will  comfort  her.  And  now  tell  me  ubout 
yesterday." 

They  sat  talking  for  some  time  in  the  same  low  tone,  and 
Tom  began  to  forget  his  causes  of  quarrel  with  the  world,  and 
gave  an  account  of  the  archsry  party  from  his  own  point  of 
view.  Katie  saw,  with  a  woman's  quickness,  that  he  avoided 
mentioning  Mary,  and  smiled  to  herself,  and  drew  her  own 
conclusions. 

At  last,  there  was  a  slight  movement  in  the  cottage,  and, 
laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  she  got  up  quickly,  and  went  m. 
In  a  few  minutes  she  came  to  the  door  again. 

"  How  is  she  1 "  asked  Tom. 

"  Oh,  much  the  same ;  but  she  Las  waked  without  pain, 
which  is  a  great  blessing.     Now,  are  you  ready  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  you  must  go  with  me." 

"  Come  in,  then."  She  turned,  and  he  followed  into  the 
cottage. 

Betty's  bed  had  been  moved  into  the  kitchen,  for  the  sake 
of  light  and  air.  He  glanced  at  the  corner  where  it  stood 
with  almost  a  feelmg  of  awe,  as  he  followed  his  cousin  on 
tip-toe.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to  recognise  the  pale,  drawn 
face  which  lay  on  thii  coarse  pillow.  The  rush  of  old  memories 
which  the  sight  called  up,  and  the  thought  of  the  sulfering  of 
his  poor  old  friend  touched  him  deeply. 

Katie  went  to  the  bed- side,  and,  stooping  down,  smoothed 
the  pillow,  and  placed  her  hand  for  a  moment  on  the  forehead 
of  her  patient.  Then  she  looked  up,  and  beckoned  to  him, 
and  said,  in  her  low,  clear  voice, — 

"  Betty,  here  is  an  old  friend  come  to  see  yoti ;  my 
cousin,  Squire  Brown's  son.  You  remember  him  quite  a  htllo 
boy  1 " 

The  old  woman  moved  her  head  towards  the  voice,  and 


A  CRISIS.  349 

smiled,  "but  gave  no  further  sign  of  recognition.  Tom  stole 
across  the  floor,  and  sat  down  by  the  bed-side. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Betty,"  he  said,  leaning  towards  her  and  speaking 
softly,  "  you  must  remember  me.  Master  Tom — who  used  to 
come  to  your  cottage  on  baking  days  for  hot  bread,  you 
know." 

"  To  be  sure,  I  minds  un,  bless  his  little  heart,"  said  the 
old  woman  faintly.  "  Hev  he  come  to  see  poor  Betty?  Do'eu 
let  un  com',  and  lift  un  up  so  as  I  med  see  un.  My  sight  be 
getting  dim -like." 

"  Here  he  is,  Betty,"  said  Tom,  taking  her  hand — a  hard- 
working hand,  lying  there  with  the  skin  all  puckered  from 
long  and  daily  acquaintance  with  the  washing-tub — "  I'm 
Master  Tom." 

"  Ah,  dearee  me,"  she  said  slowly,  looking  at  him  with 
lustreless  eyes.  "  Well,  you  be  growed  into  a  fine  young 
gentleman,  surely.  And  how's  the  Squire  and  Madam  Brown, 
and  all  the  fam'ly  ? " 

"  Oh,  very  well,  Betty, — they  will  be  so  sorry  to  hear  of 
your  illness." 

"  But  there  ain't  no  hot  bread  for  un.  'Tis  ill  to  bake 
wi'  no  fuz  bushes,  and  bakers'  stuff  is  poor  for  hungry  folk." 

"  I'm  within  three  months  as  old  as  your  HaiTy,  you 
know,"  said  Tom,  trying  to  lead  her  back  to  the  object  of  his 
visit. 

"  Harry,"  she  repeated,  and  then  collecting  herself  went  on, 
"our  Harry  ;  where  is  he?  They  haven't  sent  un  to  prison, 
and  his  mother  a  dyLn'  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  Betty  ;  he  will  be  here  directly.  I  came  to  ask 
whether  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you." 

"  You'll  stand  by  un,  poor  buoy — our  Harry,  as  you  used 
to  play  wi'  when  you  was  little — 'twas  they  as  aggravated  un 
so  as  he  couldn't  abear  it,  afore  ever  he'd  a  struck  a  fly." 

"  Yes,  Betty ;  I  will  see  that  he  has  fair  play.  Don't 
trouble  about  that ;  it  will  be  all  right.  You  must  be  quite 
quiet,  and  not  trouble  yourself  about  anything,  that  you  may 
get  well  and  about  again." 

"  Nay,  nay,  Master  Tom.  I  be  gwine  whoam  ;  ees,  I  be 
gwine  whoam  to  my  maester,  Harry's  father — I  knows  I  be 
— and  you'll  stand  by  un  when  1  be  gone ;  and  Squire 
Brown  '11  say  a  good  word  for  un  to  the  justices  ? " 

"  Yes,  Betty,  that  he  will  But  you  must  cheer  up,  and 
you'll  get  better  yet  ;  don't  be  afraid." 

"  I  beant  afeard,  Master  Tom  ;  no,  bless  you,  I  beant  afeard 
but  what  the  Lord  '11  be  mussiful  to  a  poor  lone  woman  like 
me,  as  has  had  a  sore  time  of  it  since  my  measter  died,  wi'  a 


350  TOM   BROWN  AT   OXrOED. 

hungry  boy  liko  our  Harry  to  kep,  back  and  belly ;  and  the 
rheumatics  terrible  bad  all  winter  time." 

"  I'm  sure,  Betty,  you  have  done  your  diity  by  him,  and 
every  one  else." 

"  Dwontee  speak  o'  doin's,  INIaster  Tom.  'Tis  no  duin's  o' 
ourn  as'll  make  any  odds  where  I  be  gwine." 

Tom  did  not  know  what  to  answer ;  so  he  pressed  her  hand 
and  said, — 

"  Well,  Betty,  I  am  very  glad  I  have  seen  you  once  more  : 
I  sha'n't  forget  it.  Harry  sha'u't  want  a  friend  while  I  live. ' 
"  The  Lord  bless  you,  Master  Tom,  for  that  word,"  said  the 
dying  woman,  returning  the  pressure,  as  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  Katie,  who  had  been  watching  her  carefully  from  the 
other  side  of  the  bed,  made  him  a  sign  to  go. 

"  Good-bye,  Betty,"  he  said ;  "  I  won't  forget,  you  may  be 
sure;  God  bless  you;"  and  then,  disengaging  his  haiul  gnutly, 
wont  out  again  into  the  porch,  where  he  sat  down  to  wait  for 
his  cousin. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  nurse  returned,  and  Katie  came  out 
of  the  cottage  soon  afterwards. 

"  Now  I  will  walk  up  home  vrith  you,"  she  said.  "  You 
must  come  in  and  see  papa.  Well,  I'm  sure  you  must  be 
glad  you  went  in.     Was  not  I  right  1  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  I  wish  I  could  have  said  something  more 
to  comfort  her." 

"  You  couldn't  have  said  more.  It  was  just  what  sho 
wanted." 

"  But  where  is  her  son  1     I  ought  to'see  him  before  I  go." 
"  He  has  gone  to  the  doctor's  for  some  medicine.     He  will 
be  back  soon." 

"  AVell,  I  must  see  him  ;  and  I  should  like  to  do  something 
for  him  at  once.  I'm  not  very  flush  of  money,  but  I  must 
give  you  something  for  him.  You'll  take  it ;  I  shouldn't 
like  to  offer  it  to  him." 

"  I  hardly  think  he  wants  money ;  they  are  well  oil  now. 
He  earns  good  wages,  and  Betty  has  done  her  washing  up  to 
ihis  week." 

"  Yes,  but  he  will  be  fined,  I  suppose,  for  this  assault ;  and 
then,  if  she  should  die,  there  vnll  be  the  funural  expenses." 

"  Very  well ;  as  you  please,"  she  said  ;  and  Tom  proceeded 
to  hand  over  to  her  all  his  ready  money,  except  a  shilling  or 
two.  After  satisfying  his  mind  thus,  he  looked  at  her,  and 
said — 

"  Do  you  know,  Katie,  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  you  so 
happy  and  in  such  spirits  1 " 

"  There  now  1     And  yet  you  began  talking  to  me  r.s  if  I 


A  CRISIS.  351 

■ward  looking  sad  enough  to  turn  all  the  beer  in  the  parish 
sour." 

"  "Well,  so  you  ought  to  be,  according  to  Cocker,  spending 
all  your  time  in  sick  rooms." 

"  According  to  who  ?  " 

"  According  to  Cocker." 

"  Who  is  Cocker  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  ;  some  old  fellow  who  wrote  the  rules 
of  arithmetic,  I  believe ;  it's  only  a  bit  of  slang.  But.  T 
repeat,  you  have  a  right  to  be  sad,  and  it's  taking  an  unfair 
advantage  of  your  relations  to  look  as  pleasant  as  you  do." 

Katie  laughed.  "You  ought  not  to  say  so,  at  any  rate,'*' 
she  said,  "  for  you  look  all  the  pleasanter  for  yuur  visit  to  a 
sick  room." 

"  Did  I  look  very  unpleasant  before  1 " 

"  Yv''ell,  I  don't  think  you  were  in  a  very  good  humour." 

"  No,  I  was  in  a  very  bad  humour,  and  talking  to  you  and 
poor  old  Betty  has  set  me  right,  1  think.  But  you  said  hers 
was  a  special  case.     It  must  be  very  sad  work  in  general." 

"  Only  when  one  sees  people  in  great  pain,  or  when  they 
are  wicked,  and  quarrelling,  or  complaining  about  nothing  ; 
then  I  do  get  very  low  sometimes.  But  even  then  it  is  much 
better  than  keeping  to  oneself.  Anything  is  better  than 
thiidfing  of  oneself,  and  one's  own  troubles." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  said  Tom,  recalling  his  morn- 
ing's meditations,  "  especially  when  one's  troubles  are  home- 
made. Look,  here's  an  old  felloAV  who  gave  me  a  lecture  on 
that  subject  before  I  saw  you  this  morning,  and  took  me  for 
the  apothecary's  boy." 

They  were  almost  opposite  David's  door,  at  which  he  stood 
with  a  piece  of  work  in  his  hand.  He  had  seim  IMiss  Winter 
from  his  look-out  window,  and  had  descended  from  his  board 
in  hopes  of  hearing  news. 

Katie  returned  his  respectful  and  anxious  salute,  and  said, 
"  She  is  no  worse,  David.  We  left  her  quite  out  of  pain  and 
very  quiet," 

"Ah,  'tis  to  be  hoped  as  she'll  hev  a  peaceful  time  on", 
now,  poor  soul,"  said  David  ;  "  I've  a  been  to  farmer  Groves', 
and  I  hopes  as  he'll  do  summat  about  Harry." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Winter,  "and  my  cousin 
here,  who  knew  Harry  very  well  when  they  were  little  boys 
together,  has  promised  to  help  him.  This  is  Harry's  b«st 
friend,"  she  said  to  Tom,  "  who  has  done  more  than  any  one 
to  keep  him  right." 

David  seemed  a  little  embarrassed,  and  began  jerking  his 
head  about  when  his  acquaintance  of  the  morning,  whom  he 


352  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXIOED, 

had  scarcely  noticed  before,  was  introduced  by  Miss  Winter 
as  "my  cousin." 

"  I  wish  to  do  all  I  can  for  him,"  said  Tom,  "  and  I'm  very- 
glad  to  have  made  your  acqiiaintance.  You  must  lot  mo 
know  whenever  I  can  help ; "  and  he  took  out  a  card  and 
handed  it  to  David,  wh""  looked  at  it,  and  then  said, — 

"  And  I  be  to  wiite  to  you,  sir,  then,  if  Harry  gets  into 
trouble?" 

"Yes  j  but  we  must  keep  him  out  of  trouble,  even  home- 
made ones,  which  don't  leave  good  marks,  you  know,"  said 
Tom. 

"  And  l^aay  be  nine  out  o'  ten  o'  aal  as  comes  to  a  man, 
sir,"  said  David,  "as  I've  a  told  Harry  scores  o'  times." 

"  That  seems  to  be  your  text,  David,"  said  Tom,  laughing. 

"  Ah,  and  'tis  a  good  un  too,  sir.  Ax  Miss  Winter  else. 
'Tis  a  sight  better  to  hev  the  Lord's  troubles  while  you  bo 
about  it,  for  thaay  as  hasn't  makes  wus  for  theirselves  out  o' 
nothin'.     Dwon't  'em,  miss  ? " 

"Yes  ;  you  know  that  I  agree  with  you,  David." 

"  Good-bye,  then,"  said  Tom,  holding  out  his  hand,  "  and 
mind  you  let  me  hear  from  you." 

"  What  a  queer  old  bird,  with  his  whole  wisdom  of  man 
packed  up  small  for  ready  use,  like  a  quack  doctor,"  he  said, 
as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing. 

"  Indeed,  he  isn't  the  least  hke  a  quack  doctor.  I  don't 
know  a  better  man  in  the  parish,  though  he  is  rather  obstinate, 
like  all  the  rest  of  them." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  against  him,  I  assure 
you,"  said  Tom  ;  "on  the  contrary,  I  think  him  a  fine  old 
fellow.  But  I  didn't  think  so  this  morning,  when  he  showed 
me  the  way  to  Betty's  cottage."  The  fact  was  that  Tom  saw 
all  things  and  persons  with  quite  a  different  pair  of  eyes  from 
those  which  he  had  been  provided  with  when  he  arrived  in 
Englebourn  that  morning.  He  even  made  allowances  for  old 
Mt.  Winter,  who  was  in  his  usual  querulous  state  at  luncheon, 
though  perhaps  it  would  have  been  difficult  in  the  whole  neigh- 
bourhood to  find  a  more  pertinent  comment  on,  and  illus- 
tration of,  the  constable's  text  than  the  poor  old  man  furnished, 
with  his  complaints  about  his  own  health,  and  all  he  had  to 
do  and  think  of,  for  everybody  about  him.  It  did  strike 
Tom,  however,  as  very  wonderful  how  such  a  character  as 
Katie's  could  have  grown  up  under  the  shade  of,  and  in  con- 
stant contact  with,  such  a  one  as  her  father's.  He  wished 
his  uncle  good-bye  soon  after  luncheon,  and  he  and  Katie 
started  again  down  the  village — she  to  return  to  her  nursing 
and  he  on  his  -way  homo.     He  led  his  horse  by  the  bridle  and 


A    CRISIS.  8iio 

\ra1kefl  liy  her  side  down  the  street  She  pointed  to  the 
Hawk's  Lynch  as  they  walkeii  along,  and  said,  "  You  should 
ride  up  there  ;  it  is  scarcely  out  of  your  way.  Mary  and  I 
used  to  walk  there  every  day  when  she  was  here,  and  she  was 
80  fond  of  it." 

At  the  cottage  they  found  Harry  Winburn.  Ho  carae  out, 
and  the  two  young  men  shook  hands,  and  looked  one  anothei 
over,  and  exchanged  a  few  shy  sentences.  Tom  managed 
with  difficulty  to  say  the.  little  he  had  to  say,  but  tried  to 
make  up  for  it  by  a  hearty  manner.  It  was  not  the  time  or 
place  for  any  unnecessary  talk  ;  so  in  a  few  minutes  he  was 
mounted  and  riding  up  the  slope  towards  tlie  heath.  "  I 
should  say  he  must  be  half  a  stone  lighter  than  T,"  ho  thought, 
"  and  not  quite  so  tall  ;  but  he  looks  as  hard  as  iron,  aj^d 
tough  as  whipcord.  "What  a  No.  7  he'd  make  in  a  heavy 
crew  !  Poor  fellow,  he  seems  dreadfully  cut  up.  I  hope  I 
shall  be  able  to  be  of  use  to  him.  Now  for  this  place  which 
Katie  showed  me  from  the  village  street." 

He  pressed  his  horse  up  the  steep  side  of  the  Hawk's 
T.jmch.  The  exhilaration  of  the  scramble,  and  the  sense  of 
power,  and  of  some  slight  ri.sk,  which  he  itlt  as  he  helped  on 
the  gallant  beast  \Anth  hand  and  knee  and  heel,  while  the 
loose  turf  and  stones  flew  from  his  hoofs  and  rolled  down  the 
hill  behind  them,  made  Tom's  eyes  kindle  and  his  pulse  beat 
quicker  as  he  reached  the  top  and  pulled  up  under  the  Scotch 
firs.  "  This  was  her  favourite  walk,  then.  No  wonder. 
What  an  air,  and  what  a  view  !"  He  jumped  off  his  horse, 
slipped  the  bridle  over  his  arm  and  let  him  pick  away  at  the 
short  grass  and  tufts  of  heath  as  he  himself  first  stood,  and 
then  sat,  and  looked  out  over  the  scene  which  she  had  so 
often  looked  over.  She  might  have  sat  on  the  very  s])ot  he 
was  sitting  on  ;  she  must  have  taken  in  the  same  expanse  of 
wood  and  meadow,  village  and  ]iark,  and  dreamy,  distant  hill. 
Her  presence  seemed  to  fill  the  air  round  him.  A  rush  of 
new  thoughts  and  feelings  swam  through  his  brain  and  carried 
him,  a  willing  piece  of  drift-man,  along  with  them.  He  gave 
himself  up  to  the  stream,  and  revelled  in  them.  His  ey« 
traced  back  the  road  along  which  he  had  ridden  in  the 
morning,  and  rested  on  the  Barton  woods,  just  visible  in  the 
distance,  on  this  side  of  the  point  where  all  outline  except 
that  of  the  horizon  began  to  be  lost.  The  flickering  July  aix 
eeemed  to  beat  in  a  pulse  of  purple  glory  over  the  spot.  The 
soft  wind  which  blew  straight  from  Barton  seemed  laden  with 
her  name,  and  whispered  it  in  the  firs  over  his  head.  Every 
nerve  in  his  body  was  bounding  with  new  life,  and  he  coulc 
eit  stQl  no  longer.     He  rose,  sprang  on  his  horse,  and,  with 


354  TOM    BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

Bhont  of  joy,  turned  from  the  vale  and  rushed  away  on  to  the 
heath,  northwards,  towards  his  home  behind  the  chalk  hills. 
He  had  ridden  into  Eiiglebourn  in  the  morning  an  almost 
unconscious  dabbler  by  the  margin  of  the  great  stream  ;  he 
rode  from  the  Hawk's  L;vTich  in  the  afternoon  over  head  ana 
«?ars,  and  twenty,  a  humlred,  ay,  unnumbered  fathoms  below 
that,  deep,  consciously,  and  triumphantly  in  love. 

But  at  what  a  pace,  and  in  what  a  form  !  Love,  at  least  in 
his  first  access,  must  be  as  blind  a  horseman  as  he  is  an  archer. 
The  heath  was  rough  with  peat-cutting  and  turfcutting,  and 
many  a  deep-rutted  farm  road,  and  tufts  of  heather  and  furze. 
Over  them  and  throiigh  them  went  horse  and  man — horse 
rising  seven,  and  man  twenty  off,  a  well-matched  pair  in  age 
for  a  wild  ride — headlong  towards  the  north,  till  a  blind  rut 
somewhat  deeper  than  usual  put  an  end  to  their  career,  and 
sent  the  good  horse  staggeriiig  forward  some  thirty  feet  on  to 
his  nose  and  knees,  and  Tom  over  his  shoulder,  on  to  his 
back  in  the  heather. 

"  Well,  it's  lucky  it's  no  worse,"  thought  our  hero,  as  he 
picked  himself  up  and  anxiously  examined  the  horse,  who 
stood  trembling  and  looking  wildly  puzzled  at  the  whole 
proceeding  ;  "  I  hope  he  hasn't  overreached.  Wliat  will  the 
governor  say  ?  His  knees  are  all  right.  Poor  old  boy,"  he 
said,  patting  him,  "  no  wonder  you  look  astonished.  You're 
not  in  love.  Come  along  ;  we  won't  make  fools  of  ourselves 
any  more.     "V\Tiat  is  it  ? — 

'A  tnie  love  forsaken  a  new  love  may  get, 
But  a  neck  that's  once  broken  can  never  be  set. ' 

WHiat  stuff !  one  may  get  a  neck  set  for  anything  I  know ; 
but  a  new  love — blasphemy  !  " 

The  rest  of  the  ride  passed  off  soberly  enough,  except  in 
Tom's  brain,  wherein  were  built  up  in  gorgeous  sticcession 
castles  such  as — we  have  all  built,  I  sujipose,  before  now. 
And  with  the  castles  were  built  up  side  b}'^  side  good  honest 
resolves  to  be  worthy  of  her,  and  win  her  and  worship  her 
^vith  body,  and  mind,  and-  soul.  And,  as  a  first  instalment, 
away  to  the  witids  went  all  the  selfish  morniiig  thoughts  ; 
and  he  rode  down  the  northern  slope  of  tlie  chalk  hills 
a  dutiful  and  affectionate  son,  at  peace  with  Mrs.  Porter, 
honouring  her  for  her  care  of  the  treasui'e  which  he  was 
seeking,  and  in  good  time  for  dinner. 

"  Well,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Brown  to  her  husband  when  they 
were  alone  that  night,  "  did  you  ever  see  Tom  in  such  spii'its, 
and  so  gentle  and  affectionate  1  Dear  boy  ;  there  can  be 
lothing  the  matter." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  so,"  replied  Mr.  Brown  ;    "  you  women 


PKOWN   PATRONUS.  355 

linve  always  got  some  nonsense  in  your  heads  as  soon  as  yonr 
boys  have  a  hair  on  their  chin  or  youi-  giils  begin  to  put 
up  their  back  hair." 

"  Well,  John,  say  what  you  will,  I'm  sure  Mary  Porter  ia 
a  very  sweet,  taking  girl,  and — " 

"  I  am  quite  of  the  same  opinion,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  "  and 
am  very  glad  you  have  written  to  ask  them  here." 

And  so  the  worthy  couple  went  happily  to  bed. 


CHAPTEE    XXXIII. 

BROWN    PATRONUS. 

On  a  Saturday  afternoon  in  August,  a  few  weeks  after  his 
eventful  ride,  Tom  returned  to  Englebourn  Rectory,  to  stay 
over  Sunday,  and  attend  Betty  Winburn's  funerah  He  was 
strangely  attracted  to  Harry  by  the  remembrance  of  their  old 
boyish  rivalry  ;  by  the  story  which  he  had  heard  from  his 
cousin,  of  the  unwavering  perseverance  with  which  the  young 
peasant  clung  to  and  pursued  his  suit  for  Simon's  daughter  ; 
but,  more  than  all,  by  the  feeling  of  gratitude  with  which  he 
remembered  the  effect  his  visit  to  Betty's  sick-room  had  had 
on  him,  on  the  day  of  his  ride  from  Barton  Manor.  On  that 
day  he  knew  that  he  had  ridden  into  Englebourn  in  a  miser- 
able mental  fog,  and  had  ridden  out  of  it  in  sunshine,  which 
had  lasted  through  the  intervening  weeks.  Somehow  or 
another  he  had  been  set  straight  then  and  there,  turned  into 
the  right  road  and  out  of  the  wrong  one,  at  what  he  very 
naturally  believed  to  be  the  most  critical  moment  of  his  life. 
Without  stopping  to  weigh  accurately  the  respective  merits 
of  the  several  persons  whom  he  had  come  in  contact  with  on 
that  day,  he  credited  them  all  with  a  large  amount  of  gratitude 
and  good-will,  and  Harry  Avith  his  mother's  share  as  well 
as  his  own.  So  he  had  been  longing  to  do  something  for 
him  ever  since.  The  more  he  rejoiced  in,  and  gave  himself 
up  to  his  own  new  sensations,  the  more  did  his  gratitude 
become  as  it  were  a  burden  to  him  ;  and  yet  no  opportunity 
offered  of  letting  off  some  of  it  in  action.  The  magistrates, 
taking  into  consideration  the  dangerous  state  of  his  mother, 
had  let  Harry  off  with  a  reprimand  for  his  assault ;  so  there 
was  nothing  to  be  done  there.  He  wrote  to  Katie  offering 
more  money  for  the  Winburns  ;  but  she  declined — adding, 
however,  to  her  note,  by  way  of  post8cri|)t,  that  he  might  give 
it  to  her  ch^thing  club  or  coal  club.  Thun  came  the  news  of 
Belty'.s  death,  and  an  intimation  from  Katie  that  she  thought 

A  A   2 


356  TOM    BllOWN    AT    OXFOED, 

Harry  would  he  much  gratified  if  he  woulcl  attend  the  funeral. 
He  jumped  at  tlie  suggestion.  All  Englebourn,  from  the 
Hawk's  Lynch  to  the  Rectory,  was  hallowed  ground  to  him. 
The  idea  of  getting  back  there,  so  much  nearer  to  Barton 
!Manor,  filled  him  with  joy  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  repress 
when  he  thought  of  the  main  object  of  his  visit. 

He  arrived  in  time  to  go  and  sh;ike  hands  with  Harry 
before  dinner ;  and,  though  scarcely  a  word  passed  between 
them,  he  saw  with  delight  that  he  had  evidently  given  jjleasuro 
to  the  mourner.  Then  he  had  a  charming  long  evening  with 
Katie,  walking  in  the  garden  wth  her  between  dinner  and 
tea,  and  after  tea  discoursing  in  low  tones  over  her  work- 
table,  wliile  Mr.  Winter  benevolently  slept  in  his  arm-chair. 
Their  discourse  branched  into  many  paths,  but  managed 
always  somehow  to  end  in  the  sayings,  beliefs,  and  perfectimis 
of  the  young  lady  of  Barton  Manor.  Tom  wondered  how  it 
iiad  happened  so  when  he  got  to  his  own  room,  as  he  fancied 
he  had  not  betrayed  himself  in  the  least.  He  had  determined 
to  keep  resolutely  on  his  guard,  and  to  make  a  confidant  of 
no  living  soul  till  he  was  twenty-one,  and,  though  sorely 
tempted  to  break  his  resolution  in  favour  of  Katie,  had 
restrained  himself.  He  might  have  spared  himself  all  the 
trouble  ;  but  this  he  did  not  know,  being  unversed  in  tlie 
■ways  of  women,  and  all  unaware  of  the  subtlety  and  quickness 
fif  their  intuitions  in  all  matters  connected  with  the  heart. 
]*oor,  dear,  stolid,  dim -sighted  mankind,  how  they  do  see 
thi'ough  us  and  walk  round  us  ! 

The  funeral  on  the  Sunday  afternoon  between  churches  had 
touched  him  much,  being  the  first  he  had  ever  attended.  He 
walked  next  behind  the  chief  mourner — the  few  friends, 
amongst  whom  David  was  conspicuous,  yielding  place  to  him. 
He  stood  beside  Harry  in  church,  and  at  the  open  grave,  and 
made  the  responses  as  firmly  as  he  could,  and  pressed  his 
shoulder  against  his,  when  he  felt  the  strong  frame  of  the  son 
trembling  with  the  weiglit  and  burden  of  his  resolutely  sup- 
pressed agony.  When  they  pai-ted  at  the  cottage  door,  to 
which  Tom  accompanied  the  mourner  and  his  old  and  tried 
friend  David,  though  nothing  but  a  look  and  a  grasp  of  the 
hand  passed  between  them,  he  felt  that  they  were  boMnd  by 
a  new  and  invisible  bond  ;  and,  as  he  walked  back  up  the 
village  and  passed  the  churchyard,  where  the  children  were 
playing  about  on  the  graves — stopping  every  now  and  then  to 
Avatch  the  sexton  as  ho  stamped  down,  and  filleil  in  the  mould 
on  the  last-made  one,  beside  which  he  had  himself  stood  as 
a  mourner — and  heard  the  bells  beginning  to  chime  for  the 
afternoon  service,  he  resolved  within  himself  that  he  would 


BROWN   PATRONUS.  357 

be  a  true  and  helpful  friend  to  the  wido-w's  son.  On  this 
subject  he  could  talk  freely  to  Katie  ;  and  he  did  so  tlmt 
evening,  expounding  how  much  one  in  his  position  could  do 
for  a  young  labourmg  man  if  he  really  was  bent  upon  it,  and 
building  up  grand  castles  for  Harry,  the  foundations  of  which 
rested  on  his  own  di^termination  to  benefit  and  patronize  him. 
Katie  listened  half  doubtingly  at  first,  but  was  soon  led  away 
by  his  confidence,  and  poured  out  the  tea  in  the  full  belief 
that,  with  Tom's  powerful  aid,  all  would  go  well.  After  which 
they  took  to  reading  the  "  Christian  Year "  together,  and 
branched  into  discussions  on  profane  poetry,  which  Katie 
considered  scarcely  proper  for  the  evening,  but  which,  never- 
theless, being  of  such  rare  occurrence  with  her,  she  had  not 
the  heart  to  stop. 

The  next  morning  Tom  was  to  return  home.  After  hreakfast 
he  began  the  subject  of  his  plans  for  Harry  again,  when  Katie 
produced  a  small  paper  packet,  and  handed  it  to  him,  saying — - 

"  Here  is  your  money  again." 

"What  money]" 

"The  money  you  left  with  me  for  Harry  Winburn.  I 
thought  at  the  time  that  most  probably  he  would  not  take  it." 

"But  ai'e  you  sure  he  doesn't  want  it?  Did  you  try  hard 
to  get  him  to  take  it  t "  said  Tom,  holding  out  his  hand  re- 
luctantly for  the  money. 

"  Not  myself.  I  couldn't  offer  him  money  myself,  of  course  ; 
but  I  sent  it  by  David,  and  begged  him  to  do  all  he  could  to 
persuade  him  to  take  it." 

"  Well,  and  why  wouldn't  he  1 " 

"  Oh,  he  said  the  club-money  which  was  coming  in  was 
more  than  enough  to  pay  for  the  funeral,  and  for  himself  ho 
didn't  want  it." 

"  How  provoking  !  I  wonder  if  old  David  really  did  his 
best  to  get  him  to  take  it." 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure  he  did.  But  you  ought  to  be  very  glad 
to  find  some  independence  in  a  poor  man." 

"  Bother  his  independence !  I  don't  like  to  feel  that  it 
costs  me  nothing  but  talk — T  want  to  pay." 

"  Ah,  Tom,  if  you  knew  the  poor  as  well  as  I  do,  yoa 
wouldn't  say  so.  I  am  afraid  there  are  not  two  other  men  in 
the  parish  who  would  have  refused  your  money.  Tlie  fear  of 
undermining  their  independence  takes  away  all  my  pleasure 
in  giving." 

"  Undermining  !  Why,  Katie,  I  am  sure  I  have  heard  you 
mourn  over  their  stubbornness  and  unreasonableness." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  they  are  often  provokingly  stubborn  and  un- 
reasonahle,  and  yet  not  independent  about  money,  or  anything 


358  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

tliey  can  get  out  of  you.  Besides,  T  acknowledge  that  T  liave 
li)econie  wiser  of  late  ;  I  used  to  like  to  see  them  dependent, 
and  cringing  to  me,  but  now  I  dread  it." 

"  But  you  would  like  David  to  give  in  about  the  singing, 
wouldn't  you  1" 

"  Yes,  if  he  would  give  in  I  should  be  very  proud.  I  have 
learnt  a  great  deal  from  him  ;  I  used  positively  to  dislike 
him  ;  but,  now  that  I  know  him,  I  think  him  the  best  man 
in  the  parish.  If  he  ever  does  give  in — and  I  think  he  will — 
it  will  be  Vvorth  anything,  just  because  he  is  so  independent." 
"  That's  all  very  well ;  but  what  am  T  to  do  to  sliow  Harry 
Winburn  that  I  mean  to  be  his  friend,  if  he  won't  take 
money  1 " 

"  You  have  come  over  to  his  mother's  funeral — he  will 
think  more  of  that  than  of  all  the  money  you  could  give  him  ; 
and  you  can  show  sympathy  for  him  in  a  great  many  ways." 

"  Well,  I  must  try.  By  the  way,  about  his  love  affair ;  is 
the  young  lady  at  home  t  I  have  never  seen  her,  you  know." 
"  No,  she  is  away  with  an  aunt,  looking  out  for  a  place.  I 
have  persuaded  her  to  get  one,  and  leave  home  again  for  the 
present.  Her  father  is  qixite  well  now,  and  she  is  not  wanted." 
"  Well,  it  seems  I  can't  do  any  good  with  her,  then  ;  but 
could  not  T  go  and  talk  to  her  father  about  Harry  ?  I  might 
lielp  him  in  that  way." 

"  You  must  be  very  careful ;  Simon  is  such  an  odd-tempered 
old  man." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  ;  he  and  I  are  great  chums,  and  a  little 
soft  soap  will  go  a  long  way  with  him.  Fancy,  if  I  could  get 
him  this  very  morning  to  *  sanction  Harry's  suit/  as  the  phrase 
is,  what  should  you  think  of  me  1" 

"  I  should  think  very  highly  of  your  powers  of  persuasion." 

'Not  the  least  daunted   by  his  cousin's  misgivings,   Tom 

started  in  quest  of  Simon,  and  found  him  at  work  in  front  of 

the  greenhouse,  surrounded  by  many  small  pots  and  heaps  of 

finely  sifted  mould,  and  absor!)ed  in  his  occupation. 

Simon  was  a  rough,  stolid  Berkshire  rustic,  somewhat  of  a 
tyrant  in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  an  unmanageable  servant, 
a  cross-grained  acquaintance ;  as  a  citizen,  stiff-necked  and  a 
grumbler,  who  thought  that  nothing  ever  went  right  in  the 
parish  ;  but,  withal,  a  thorough  honest  worker  ;  and,  when 
allowed  to  go  his  own  way — and  no  other  way  would  he  go, 
as  his  mistress  had  long  since  discovered — there  was  no  man 
who  earned  his  daily  bread  more  honestly.  He  took  a  pride 
in  his  work,  and  the  Rectory  garden  was  always  trim  and  well 
kept,  and  the  beds  bright  with  flowers  from  early  spring  till 
lute  autumn. 


BROWN  PATRONUS.  35S 

He  ^as  absorbed  in  what  he  Avas  about,  and  Tom  came  up 
close  to  him  without  attracting  the  least  sign  of  recognition  ; 
80  he  stopped,  and  opened  the  conversation. 

"  Good  day,  Simon  ;  it's  a  pleasure  to  see  a  garden  looking 
so  gaj'  as  yours." 

Simon  looked  up  from  his  work,  and,  when  he  saw  who  it 
was,  touched  his  battered  old  hat,  and  answered, — 

"  ISIornin'  sir  !  Ees,  you  finds  me  alius  in  blume." 

"  Indeed  I  do,  Simon  :  but  how  do  you  manage  it  1  T 
should  like  to  tell  my  father's  gardener." 

"  'Tis  no  use  to  tell  un  if  a  hevn't  found  out  for  hisself. 
Tis  nothing  but  lookin'  a  bit  forrard  and  farm-yard  stuff  as 
does  it." 

"  Well,  there's  plenty  of  farm-yard  stuff  at  home,  and  yet, 
somehow,  we  never  look  half  so  bright  as  you  do." 

"  ]May  be  as  your  gardener  just  takes  and  hits  it  auver  the 
top  o'  the  ground,  and  lets  it  lie.  That's  no  kind  o'  good,  that 
beant — 'tis  the  roots  as  wants  the  stuff ;  and  you  med  jist  as 
well  take  and  put  a  round  o'  beef  agin  my  back  bwone  as  hit 
the  stuff  auver  the  ground,  and  never  see  as  it  gets  to  the 
roots  o'  the  plants." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  it  can  be  that,"  said  Tom,  laughing  ; 
"  our  gardener  seems  always  to  be  digging  his  manure  in, 
but  somehow  he  can't  make  it  come  out  in  flowers  as  you 
do." 

"Ther'  be  mwore  waays  o'  killin'  a  cat  besides  choking  on 
un  wi'  crame,"  said  Simon,  chuckling  in  his  turn. 

"  That's  true,  Simon,"  said  Tom  ;  "  the  fact  is,  a  gardener 
must  know  bis  business  as  well  as  you  to  be  always  in  bloom, 
eh?" 

"That's  about  it,  sir,"  said  Simon,  on  whom  the  flattery 
was  beginning  to  tell. 

Tom  saw  this,  and  thought  he  might  now  feel  his  way  a 
little  further  with  the  old  man. 

"  I'm  over  on  a  sad  errand,"  he  said ;  "  I've  been  to  poor 
Widow  Winburn's  funeral — she  was  an  old  friend  of  yours, 
I  think?" 

"  Ees  ;  I  minds  her  long  afore  she  wur  married,"  said  Simon, 
turning  to  his  pots  again, 

'•  She  wasn't  an  old  woman,  after  all,"  said  Tom. 
"  Sixty-two  year  old  cum  ^Michaelmas,"  said  Simon. 
"  Well,  she  ought  to  have  been  a  strong  woman  for  another 
ten  years  at  least ;  why,  you  must  be  older  than  she  by  some 
years,  Simon,  and  you  can  do  a  good  day's  work  yet  with  any 
man." 

Simon  went  on  with  his  potting  without  replying  except 


SGO  TOM    BKOWN    AT    OXTORD. 

by  a  carefully  measured  grant,  sufficient  to  show  that  he  had 
heard  the  remark,  and  was  not  much  impressed  by  it. 

Tom  saw  tlia(,  he  must  change  his  attack  ;  so,  after  watch- 
ing Simon  for  a  minute,  he  began  again. 

"I  wonder  why  it  is  that  the  men  of  your  time  of  life  are 
so  much  stronger  than  the  young  ones  in  constitution.  Now, 
I  don't  believe  there  are  three  young  men  in  Engleboiirn  who 
would  have  got  over  that  fall  you  had  at  Farmer  Groves'  so 
quick  as  you  have  ;  most  young  men  would  have  been  crippled 
for  life  by  it." 

"Zo  'em  would,  the  young  wosbirds.  I  d won't  make  no 
account  on  'em,"  said  Simon. 

"  And  you  don't  feel  any  the  worse  for  it,  Simon  ?" 

*'  Narra  mossel,"  replied  Simon ;  but  presently  he  seemed 
to  recollect  something,  and  added,  "  I  wun't  saay  but  what  I 
feels  it  at  times  when  I've  got  to  stoop  about  much." 

"  Ah,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,  Simon.  Then  you  oiTghtn't 
to  have  so  much  stooping  to  do  ;  potting,  and  that  sort  of 
thing,  is  the  work  for  you,  I  should  think,  and  just  giving 
an  eye  to  everything  about  the  place.  Anybody  could  do 
the  digging  and  setting  out  cabbages,  and  your  time  is 
only  wasted  at  it." — Tum  had  now  found  the  old  man's  weak 
point. 

"  Ees,  sir,  and  so  I  tells  miss,"  he  said  "  but  wi'  nothin'  but 
a  bit  o'  glass  no  bigger'n  a  cowcumber  frame  'tis  all  as  a  man 
can  do  to  keep  a  few  plants  alive  droo'  the  winter." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Tom,  looking  round  at  the  very  respect- 
able greenhouse  which  Simon  had  contemptuously  likened  to 
a  cucumber- frame,  "you  ought  to  have  at  least  another  house 
as  big  as  this  for  forcing." 

"  Master  ain't  pleased,  he  ain't,"  said  Simon,  "  if  he  dwon't 
get  his  things,  his  sj)ring  wegebatles,  and  his  strawberries,  as 
early  as  though  we'd  a  got  forcin'  pits  and  glass  like  other 
folk.  'Tis  a  year  and  mwore  since  he  promised  as  I  sh'd  hev 
glass  along  that  ther'  v/all,  but  'tis  no  nigher  comin'  as  I  can 
see.  I  be  to  spake  to  miss  about  it  now,  he  says,  and,  when 
I  spakes  to  her,  'tis,  '  Oh,  Simon,  we  must  wait  till  the 
'spensary's  'stablished,'  or  '  Oh,  Simon,  last  winter  wur  a  werry 
tryin  wun,  and  the  sick  club's  terrible  bad  off  for  fund.s,' — 
and  so  we  gwoes  on,  and  med  gwo  on,  for  aught  as  1  can  see, 
so  long  as  there's  a  body  sick  or  bad  off  in  all  the  parish. 
And  that'll  be  alius.  For,  what  wi'  miss's  wisitin'  on  'era,  and 
Bcndin'  on  'em  dinners,  and  a'al  the  doctor's  stuff  as  is  served 
(♦ut  o'  the  'spensary — wy,  'tis  enough  to  keep  em  bad  a'f>l 
thor  lives.  Ther  ain't  no  credit  in  gettin'  well.  Ther  wiir 
ao  sich  a  caddie  about  sick  folk  when  I  wur  a  bwoy. 


EKOWN  PATKONUS.  3G1 

Simon  had  never  been  known  to  make  such  a  long  speech 
before,  and  Tom  argued  well  for  his  negotiation. 

"  Well,  Simon,"  he  said,  "  I've  been  talking  to  my  cousin, 
and  I  think  she  will  do  what  you  want  now.  The  dispeusary 
is  set  up,  and  the  people  are  very  healthy.  How  much  glass 
should  you  want,  now,  along  that  wall  1 " 

"  A  matter  o'  twenty  fit  or  so,"   said  Simon. 

"I  think  that  car  be  managed,'^  said  Tom;  "I'll  sjieak 
to  my  cousin  about  it ;  and  then  you  would  have  plenty  to 
do  in  the  houses,  and  you'd  want  a  regular  man  under  you." 

"  Ees ;  'twould  take  two  on  us  reg'lar  to  kep  things  aa 
should  be." 

"  And  you  ought  to  have  somebody  who  knows  what  he  is 
about.     Can  you  think  of  any  one  who  would  do,  Simon  1 " 

"  Ther's  a  young  chap  as  works  for  Squu-e  Wurley.  I've 
heard  as  he  wants  to  better  liisself." 

"But  he  isn't  an  Englebourn  man.  Isn't  there  any  one  in 
the  parish  1 " 

"  Ne'er  a  one  as  I  knows  on." 

"  What  do  you  thinlv  of  liarry  Winbum — he  seems  a  good 
hand  with  flowers  1 "  The  words  had  scarcely  passed  his  lips 
when  Tom  saw  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  Old  Simon 
retired  uito  himself  at  once,  and  a  cu.nnhig  tlistrustful  l(Jo!i 
came  over  his  face.  There  was  no  doing  anything  with  him. 
Even  the  new  forcing  house  had  lost  its  attractions  for  liim, 
and  Tom,  after  some  further  inelfectual  attempts  to  bring  him 
round,  returned  to  the  house  somewhat  crestl'allen. 

"  Well,  how  have  you  succeeded  ] "  said  Katie,  looking  up 
from  her  work,  as  he  came  in  and  sat  down  near  her  table. 
Tom  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  made  a  regular  hash  of  it,"  he  said.  "  I 
thought  at  fii'st  I  had  quite  conje  round  the  old  savage  by 
praising  the  garden,  and  promising  that  you  woalel  let  him 
have  a  new  house." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  did  that  1"  said  Katie,  stopping 
her  work. 

"  Indeed,  but  I  did,  though.  I  was  drawn  on,  you  know. 
I  saw  it  was  the  right  card  to  play  ;  so  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"  Oh,  Tom  1  how  could  you  do  so  1  We  don't  want  another 
house  the  least  in  the  world ;  it  is  only  Simon's  vanity.  He 
wants  to  beat  the  gardener  at  the  Grange  at  the  flower-shows. 
Every  penny  will  have  to  come  out  of  what  papa  allows  me 
for  the  parish." 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Katie  ;  you  won't  have  to  spend  a  penny. 
Of  course  I  reserved  a  condition.  The  new  house  was  to  bo 
put  up  if  he  would  take  Harry  as  under-gardener." 


3G2  TOM   BEOVVN   AT    OXFORD. 

"  What  did  he  say  to  that  1 " 

"  Well,  he  said  nothing.  I  never  came  across  such  an  old 
Turk.  How  you  have  spoiled  liiui !  If  he  isn't  pleased,  ha 
won't  take  the  trouble  to  answer  you  a  word.  I  was  very 
ii'jar  telling  him  a  piece  of  my  mind.  But  he  looked  all  th& 
more.  I  believe  he  would  poison  Harry  if  he  came  hero. 
What  can  have  made  him  hate  him  so  ? " 

"  He  is  jealous  of  him.  jMary  and  I  were  so  foolish  as  to 
praise  poor  Betty's  flowers  before  Simon,  and  he  has  nevei 
forgiven  it.  I  think,  too,  that  he  suspects,  somehow,  that  wo 
talked  about  getting  Harry  here.  1  ought  to  have  told  you, 
but  I  quite  forgot  it." 

"  Well,  it  can't  be  helped.  I  don't  think  I  can  do  any 
good  in  that  quarter ;  so  now  I  shall  be  off  to  the  Grange  to 
see  what  I  can  do  there." 

"  How  do  you  mean  1 " 

"  Why,  Harry  is  afraid  of  being  turned  out  of  his  cottage. 
I  saw  how  it  worried  him,  thinking  about  it ;  so  I  shall  go  to 
the  Grange,  and  say  a  good  word  for  him.  Wurley  can't 
refuse  if  I  offer  to  pay  the  rent  myself — it's  only  six  pounds 
a  year.  Of  course,  1  sha'n't  tell  Harry  ;  and  he  will  pay  it 
all  the  same;  but  it  may  make  all  the  difference  with  Wurley, 
who  is  a  regular  screw." 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Wurley  1 " 

"  Yes,  just  to  speak  to.  He  knows  all  about  me,  and  he 
will  be  very  glad  to  be  civil." 

"  iSTo  doubt  he  will ;  but  I  don't  like  your  going  to  his 
house.  You  don't  know  what  a  bad  man  he  is.  Nobody  but 
men  on  the  turf,  and  that  sort  of  people,  go  there  now  ;  anil 
I  believe  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  gambling  and  game- 
preserving." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  know  all  about  him.  The  county  people  are 
beginning  to  look  shy  at  him  ;  so  he'll  be  all  the  more  likely 
to  do  what  I  ask  hini." 

"  But  you  won't  get  intimate  with  him  1 " 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  that." 

"  It  is  a  sad  house  to  go  to — I  hope  it  won't  do  you  any 
hann." 

"  Ah,  Katie  !  "  said  Tom,  with  a  smile  not  altogether  cheer- 
ful, "  1  don't  think  you  need  be  anxious  about  that,  AVhen 
one  has  been  a  year  at  Oxford,  there  isn't  much  snow  left  to 
Boil ;  so  now  I  am  off.  I  must  give  myself  plenty  of  time  to 
cook  AVurley." 

"  WelL,  1  suppose  I  must  not  hinder  you,"  said  Katie. 
"  I  do  hope  you  will  succeed  in  some  of  your  kind  plans  foi 
Harry." 


BKOTVN    PATEOXUS  o63 

"  I  shall  do  my  best ;  and  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  some- 
body besides  oneself  to  think  about  and  try  to  lielp — some 
poor  person — don't  you  think  so,  even  for  a  man  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  do.  I  am  sure  you  can't  be  happy  without 
it,  any  more  than  I.  We  shouldn't  be  our  mothers'  children 
if  we  could  be." 

"Well,  good-bye,  dear;  you  can't  think  how  I  enjoy  these 
glimpses  of  you  and  your  work.  You  must  give  my  love  to 
Uncle  Robert." 

And  so  they  bade  one  another  adieu,  lovingly,  after  the 
maimer  of  cousins,  and  Tom  rode  away  with  a  very  soft  place 
in  his  heart  for  his  cousin  Katie.  It  was  not  the  least  the 
same  sort  of  passionate  feeling  of  worship  with  which  ho 
regarded  Mary.  The  two  feelings  could  lie  side  by  side  in 
his  heart  with  plenty  of  room  to  s])are.  In  fact,  his  heart 
had  been  getting  so  big  in  the  last  few  weeks,  that  it  seemed 
capable  of  taking  in  the  whole  of  mankind,  nrt  to  mention 
woman.  Still,  on  the  whole,  it  may  be  safely  asserted,  that 
had  matters  been  in  at  all  a  more  forward  state,  and  could  she 
have  seen  exactly  what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  Mary  would 
probably  have  objected  to  the  kind  of  affection  which  he  felt 
for  his  cousin  at  this  particular  time.  The  joke  about  cousinly 
love  is  probably  as  old,  and  certainly  as  true,  as  Solomon's 
proverbs.  However,  as  matters  stood,  it  could  be  no  concern 
of  Mary's  what  his  feelings  were  towards  Katie,  or  any  other 
person. 

Tom  rode  in  at  the  lodge  gate  of  the  Grange  soon  after 
eleven  o'clock  and  walked  his  horse  slowly  through  the  park, 
admiring  the  splendid  timber,  and  thinking  how  he  should 
break  his  request  to  the  owner  of  the  place.  But  his  thoughts 
were  interrupted  by  the  proceedings  of  the  rabbits,  which 
were  out  by  hundreds  all  along  the  sides  of  the  plantations, 
and  round  the  great  trees.  A  few  of  the  nearest  just  deigned 
to  notice  him  by  scampering  to  their  holes  under  the  roots  of 
the  antlered  oaks,  into  which  some  of  them  popped  with  a 
disdainful  kick  of  their  hind  legs,  while  others  turned  rounJ 
sat  up,  and  looked  at  him.  As  he  neared  the  house,  ho 
j)assed  a  keeper's  cottage,  and  was  saluted  by  the  barking  of 
dogs  from  the  neighbouring  kennel  5  and  the  young  pheasants 
ran  about  round  some  twenty  hen-coops,  which  were  arranged 
along  opposite  the  door  where  the  keeper's  children  were 
playing.  The  pleasure  of  watching  the  beasts  and  birds 
kept  him  from  arranging  his  thoughts,  and  he  reached  the 
baU-door  without  having  formed  the  plan  of  his  campaign. 

A  footman  answered  the  bell,  who  doubted  whether  his 
master  was  down,  but  thought  he  would  see  the  gentleman  if 


3Gi  TOxM  BROWN   AT   OXFOED. 

he  '.vould  send  iu  his  name.  "Wliereupon  Tom  handed  in  his 
card ;  and,  iu  a  few  minutes,  a  rakish-looking  stable-boy  came 
round  for  his  horse,  and  the  butler  appeared,  with  his  master's 
eompliments,  and  a  request  that  he  would  step  into  the 
breakfast-room.  Tom  followed  this  portly  personage  through 
the  large  handsome  hall,  on  the  walls  of  which  hung  a  buflf- 
coat  or  two  and  some  old-fashioned  arms,  and  large  paintings 
of  dead  game  and  fruit — through  a  drawing-room,  the  furni- 
ture of  which  was  all  covered  up  in  melancholy  cases — into 
the  breakfast  parlour,  where  the  owner  of  the  mansion  was 
seated  at  table  in  a  lounging  .'«i/;ket.  He  was  a  man  of  forty, 
or  thereabouts,  who  wouia  Have  been  handsome,  but  for  the 
animal  look  about  his  face.  His  cheeks  were  beginning  to 
fall  into  chaps,  his  full  li})s  had  a  liquorish  look  about  them, 
and  bags  were  beginning  to  form  under  his  light  blue  eyes. 
His  hands  were  very  white  and  delicate,  and  shook  a  little  as 
he  poured  out  his  tea ;  and  he  was  full  and  stout  in  body 
with  small  shoulders,  and  thin  arms  and  legs  ;  in  short,  the 
last  man  whom  Tom  would  have  chosen  as  bow  in  a  pair  oai. 
The  only  part  of  him  which  showed  strength  were  his  dark 
whiskers,  which  were  abundant,  and  elaborately  oiled  and 
curled.  The  room  was  light  and  pleasant,  with  two  windows 
looking  over  the  park,  and  furnished  luxuriously,  in  the  most 
modern  style,  with  all  manner  of  easy  chaii's  and  sofas.  A 
glazed  case  or  two  of  well-bound  books  showed  that  some 
former  owner  had  cared  for  such  things ;  but  the  doors  had, 
probably,  never  been  opened  in  tlie  present  reign.  The 
master,  and  his  usual  visitors,  found  sufficient  food  for  the 
mind  in  the  Racing  Calendar,  "  Boxiana,"  "The  Adventures 
of  Corinthian  Tom,"  and  Bell's  Life,  wliicli  lay  on  a  side 
table  ;  or  in  the  pictures  and  prints  of  racers,  opera  dancers, 
and  stee[)lc-chases,  which  hung  in  profusion  on  the  walls 
The  breakfast-table  was  beautifully  appointed,  in  the  matter 
of  cliina  and  plate ;  and  delicate  little  rolls,  neat  pats  of 
butter  in  ice,  and  two  silver  hot  diahes  containing  curry  and 
broiled  salmon,  and  a  plate  of  fruit,  piled  in  tempting  profu- 
sion, appealed,  apparently  in  vain,  to  the  appetite  of  the  lord 
of  the  feast. 

"  Mr.  Brown,  sir,"  said  the  butler,  ushering  in  our  hero  to 
his  master's  presence. 

"  Ah,  Brown,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  here,"  said  Jlr. 
"Wurley,  standing  up  and  holding  out  his  hand.  "  Have  any 
breakfast  ? " 

"  Thank  you,  no,  I  have  breakfasted,"  said  Tom,  somewhat 
astonisiied  at  the  intimacy  of  the  greeting  ;  but  it  was  his  cue 
lo  do  the  friendly  thing — so  he  shook  the  proffered   hand. 


BROWN    PATEONUS.  3G5 

which  felt  very  limp,  and  sat  down  by  the  table,  looking 
pleasant. 

"  Ridden  from  home  this  morning  ? "  said  Mr.  Wnrley, 
picking  over  daintily  some  of  the  curry  to  which  he  had 
helped  himself. 

"  No,  I  was  at  my  uncle's,  at  Englebourn,  last  niglit.  Tt  is 
very  little  out  of  the  way  ;  so  1  tliought  I  would  just  call  on 
my  road  home." 

"  Quite  right,  I'm  very  glad  you  came  without  ceremony. 
People  about  here  are  so  d — d  full  of  ceremony.  It  don'/; 
suit  me,  all  that  humbug.  But  I  wish  you'd  just  pick  a 
bit." 

"  Tliank  yon.  Then  I  will  eat  some  fruit,"  said  Tom,  help- 
ing himself  to  some  of  the  freshly  picked  grapes  ;  "  how  very 
fine  these  are  !  " 

"Yes,  I'm  open  to  back  my  houses  against  the  field  for 
twenty  miles  round.  This  curry  isn't  fit  for  a  pig. — Take  it 
out,  and  tell  the  cook  so."  The  butler  solemnly  obeyed, 
while  his  master  went  on  with  one  of  the  frequent  oaths  with 
which  he  garnished  his  conversation.  "  You're  right,  they 
can't  spoil  the  fruit.  They're  a  set  of  skulking  devils,  are 
servants.  They  tliink  of  nothing  but  stuffing  themselves,  and 
how  they  can  cheat  you  most,  and  do  the  least  work."  Say- 
ing which,  he  helped  himself  to  some  fruit;  and  the  two  ate 
their  grapes  for  a  short  time  in  silence.  But  even  fruit 
seemed  to  pall  quickly  on  him,  and  he  pushed  away  his 
plate.  The  butler  came  back  with  a  silver  tray,  with  soda 
water,  and  a  smaU  decanter  of  brandy,  and  long  glasses 
on  it. 

"  Won't  you  have  something  after  your  ride  1 "  said  the  host 
to  Tom  ; "  some  soda  water  with  a  dash  of  bingo  clears  one's 
head  in  the  morning." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Tom,  smiling,  "  it's  bad  for  training." 

"  All,  you  Oxford  men  are  all  for  training,"  said  his  host, 
drinking  greeddy  of  the  foaming  mixture  which  the  butler 
handed  to  him.  "  A  glass  of  bitter  ale  is  what  you  take,  eh  ? 
I  know.     Get  some  ale  for  Mr.  Brown." 

Tom  felt  that  it  would  be  uncivil  to  refuse  this  orthodox 
offer,  and  took  his  beer  accordingly,  after  which  his  host 
produced  a  box  of  Hudson's  regalias,  and  proposed  to  look  at 
the  stables.  So  they  lighted  their  cigars,  and  went  out. 
Mr.  Wmiey  had  taken  of  late  to  the  turf,  and  they  inspected 
several  young  horses  which  were  entered  for  country  stakes. 
Tom  thought  them  weedy-looking  animals,  but  patiently 
listened  to  their  praises  and  pedigrees,  upon  which  his  host 
waR  eIoq[ueiit  enough ;  and,  rubbing  up  his  latest  rcadingn 


3GG  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

in  Bell's  Life,  and  the  racing  talk  which  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  hearing  in  Drysdale's  rooms,  managed  to  hold  his 
own,  and  aslced,  with  a  gi-ave  face,  about  the  price  of  the 
Coronation  colt  for  the  next  Derby,  and  whether  Scott's  lot 
was  not  the  right  thing  to  stand  on  for  the  St.  Leger,  thereby 
raising  himself  considerably  in  his  host's  eyes.  There  were 
no  hunters  in  the  stable,  at  which  Turn  expresocd  his  surprise. 
In  reply,  Mr.  Wurley  abused  the  country,  and  declared  that  it 
was  not  worth  riding  across — the  fact  being  that  he  had  lost 
his  nerve,  and  that  the  recejition  wnich  he  was  beginning 
to  meet  with  in  the  field,  if  he  came  out  by  chance,  was 
of  the  coldest. 

From  the  stables  they  strolled  to  the  keeper's  cottage,  where 
!Mr.  Wurley  called  for  some  buckwheat  and  Indian  corn,  and 
began  feeding  the  young  pheasants,  which  were  running  about, 
almost  like  barn-door  fowls,  close  to  them. 

"  We've  had  a  good  season  for  the  young  birds,"  he  said  ; 
"  my  fellow  knows  that  part  of  his  business,  d — n  him,  and 
don't  lose  many.  You  had  better  bi'ing  your  gun  over  in 
October  ;  we  shall  have  a  week  in  the  covers  early  in  the 
month." 

"  Thank  you,  I  shall  be  very  glad,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  you 
don't  shoot  these  birds  ?  " 

"  Shoot  'em  !  what  the  devil  should  I  do  with  'em  1 " 

"  Why,  they're  so  tame  I  thought  you  just  kept  them  about 
the  house  for  breeding.  I  don't  care  so  much  for  pheasant 
shooting ;  I  like  a  good  walk  after  a  snipe,  or  creeping  along 
to  get  a  wild  duck,  much  better.  There's  some  sport  in 
it,  or  even  in  partridge  shooting  with  a  couple  of  good  dogs, 
now — " 

"  You're  quite  wrong.  Tliere's  nothing  like  a  good  dry 
ride  in  a  cover  with  lots  of  game,  and  a  fellow  behind  to  load 
for  you." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  I  prefer  the  open." 

"  You've  no  covers  over  your  way,  have  you  ?  " 

"Not  many." 

'*  I  thought  so.  You  wait  till  you've  had  a  good  day  in  my 
covers,  and  you  won't  care  for  quartering  all  day  over  wet 
turnips.  Besides,  this  sort  of  thing  pays.  They  talk  about 
pheasants  costing  a  guinea  a  head  on  one's  table.  It's  all 
stuff;  at  any  rate,  mine  don't  cost  me  much.  In  fact,  I  say  it 
pays,  and  I  can  prove  it." 

"  But  you  feed  your  pheasants  1 " 

"  Yes,  just  round  the  house  for  a  few  weeks,  and  I  sow  a 
little  buckwheat  in  the  covers.  But  they  have  to  keep  them- 
selves pretty  much,  I  can  tell  jou." 


BEOWN  PATKONUS.  3G7 

"  Don't  the  fanners  object?  " 

"Yes,  d — n  tliem  ;  they're  never  sntisfied.  But  they  don't 
grumble  to  me  ;  they  know  better.  There  are  a  dozen  fellows 
ready  to  take  any  farm  that's  given  up,  and  they  know  it.  Just 
get  a  beggar  to  put  a  hundred  or  two  into  the  groiuid,  and 
he  won't  quit  hold  in  a  hurry.  Will  you  play  a  game  at 
biUiards  % " 

The  turn  wliich  their  conversation  had  taken  hitherto  had 
offered  no  opening  to  Tom  for  introducing  the  object  of  his 
visit,  and  he  felt  less  and  less  inclined  to  couie  to  the  point. 
He  looked  his  host  over  and  over  again,  and  the  more  he 
looked  the  less  he  fancied  asking  anything  like  a  favour  of 
him.  However,  as  it  had  to  be  done,  he  thought  he  couldn't 
do  better  than  fall  into  his  ways  for  a  few  hours,  and  watch 
for  a  chance.  The  man  seemed  good  natured  in  his  way  ;  and 
all  his  belongings — the  fine  park  and  house,  and  gardens  and 
stables — were  not  without  theii-  effect  on  his  young  guest.  It 
is  not  given  to  many  men  of  twice  his  age  to  separate  a  man 
from  his  possessions,  and  look  at  him  apart  from  them.  So  he 
yielded  easily  enough,  and  they  went  to  billiards  in  a  fiaie 
room  opening  out  of  the  hall ;  and  Tom,  who  was  very  fond 
of  the  game,  soon  forgot  everything  in  the  pleasure  of  play- 
ing on  such  a  table. 

It  was  not  a  bad  match.  Mr.  "Wurley  understood  the  game 
far  better  than  his  guest,  and  could  give  him  advice  as  to 
what  side  to  put  on  and  how  to  play  for  cannons.  This  he 
did  in  a  patronizing  way,  but  his  hand  was  unsteady  and  his 
nerve  bad.  Tom's  good  eye  and  steady  hand,  and  tlie  practice 
he  had  had  at  the  St.  Ambrose  pool-table,  gave  him  con- 
siderable advantage  in  the  hazards.  And  so  they  played  on, 
!Mr.  Wurley  condescending  to  bet  only  half-a-crown  a  game, 
at  first  giving  ten  points,  and  then  five,  at  which  latter 
odds  Tom  managed  to  be  two  games  ahead  when  the  butler 
announced  lunch,  at  two  o'clock. 

"  1  think  I  musi  order  my  horse,"  said  Tom,  putting  on  hia 
coat. 

"  No,  curse  it,  you  must  give  me  my  revenge.  I'm  always 
five  points  better  after  lunch,  and  after  dinner  I  could  give 
you  fifteen  points.  Why  shouldn't  you  stop  and  dine  and 
sleep ']     I  expect  some  men  to  dinner." 

"  Thank  you,  I  must  get  home  to-day." 

"I  should  hke  you  to  taste  my  mutton;  I  never  kiU  it 
under  five  years  old.     You  don't  get  that  every  day." 

Tom,  however,  was  proof  against  the  mutton  ;  but  con- 
sented to  stay  till  towards  tlie  hour  when  the  other  guests 
were  expected,  finding  that  his  host  had  a  decided  objection 


308  TOM   BHOTTNT   AT   OXFORD. 

to  he  left  alone.  So  after  Inncli,  at  which  Mr.  "VVurley  drar,k 
the  hetter  part  of  a  bottle  of  old  sherry  to  steady  his  nerves, 
they  returned  again  to  Inlliards  and  Hudson's  regalias. 

They  played  on  for  another  hour ;  and,  though  ^Ir.  ^Yurley'8 
hand  was  certainly  steadier,  the  luck  remained  with  Tom. 
]le  was  now  getting  rather  tired  of  playing,  and  wanted  to 
be  leaving,  and  he  began  to  reruember  the  object  of  his  visit 
again.  But  Mr.  Wurley  was  nettled  at  being  beaten  by  a 
boy,  as  he  covinted  his  opponent,  and  wouldn't  hear  of  leaving 
off.  So  Tom  played  on  carelessly  game  after  game,  and  was 
soon  again  only  two  games  ahead.  Mr.  Wurley's  temper  was 
recovering,  and  now  Tom  j)rotested  that  he  must  go.  Just 
one  game  more,  his  host  urged,  and  Tom  consented.  Wouldn't 
he  jilay  for  a  sovereign  ?  No.  So  they  played  double  or 
qMits  ;  and  after  a  sharp  struggle  Mr.  Wurley  won  the  game, 
at  which  he  was  highly  elated,  and  talked  again  grandly  of  the 
odds  he  could  give  after  dinner. 

Tom  felt  that  it  was  now  or  never,  and  so,  as  ha  put  on 
his  coat,  he  said, — 

"  Well,  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  a  very  pleasant  day, 
Mr.  Wurley." 

"I  hope  j'^ou'U  come  over  again,  and  stay  and  sleep.  I  shall 
always  be  glad  to  see  you.  It  is  so  cursed  hard  to  keep  some- 
body always  going  in  the  country." 

"  Thank  you  ;  I  should  like  to  come  again.  But  now  I 
want  to  ask  a  favour  of  you  before  I  go." 

"Eh,  well,  what  is  it?"  said  Mr.  Wurley,  whose  face  and 
manner  becan7.e  suddenly  anything  but  encouraging. 

"There's  that  cottage  of  yours,  the  one  at  the  corner  of 
Englebourn  copse,  next  the  village." 

"  The  woodman's  liouse,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Wurley. 

"  The  tenant  is  dead,  and  I  want  you  to  let  it  to  a  friend  of 
mine  ;   I'll  take  care  the  rent  is  paid." 

Mr.  Wurley  pricked  up  his  ears  at  this  announcement.  He 
gave  a  sharp  look  at  Tom  ;  and  then  bent  over  the  table, 
made  a  stroke,  and  said.  "  Ah,  I  heard  the  old  woman  was 
dead.     Who's  your  friend,  then  ? " 

"Well,  I  mean  her  son,"  said  Tom,  a  little  embarrassed; 
"  lie's  an  active  young  fellow,  and  will  make  a  good  tenant, 
I'm  sure." 

"  I  daresay,"  said  Mr.  Wurley,  with  a  leer;  "and  I  suppose 
there's  a  sister  to  keep  house  for  him,  eh  ? " 

"  No,  but  he  wants  to  get  married." 

"  Wants  to  get  married,  eh  1 "  said  Mr.  Wurley,  with 
another  leer  and  onth.  •'  You're  right  ;  that's  a  ioal  safer 
kind  of  thing  for  you." 


BKOWN   PATRONUS.  869 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom,  resoliitoly  disreganlinf:^  the  insiimation, 
whicli  he  could  not  help  feeling  was  intencied  ;  "  it  will  keep 
him  steady,  and  if  he  can  get  the  cottage  it  might  make  all 
the  difference.  There  wouldn't  be  much  trouble  about  the 
marriage  then,  I  dare  say." 

"  You'll  find  it  a  devilish  long  way.  You're  quite  right, 
mind  you,  not  to  get  them  settled  close  at  home ;  but  Engle- 
bourn  is  too  far,  I  should  say." 

"  What  does  it  matter  to  me  1 " 

"  Oh,  you're  tired  of  her  !  I  see.  Perhaps  it  won't  be  too 
fer,  then." 

"  Tired  of  her  !  who  do  you  moan  1  " 

"  Ha,  ha  ! "  said  Mr.  Wiirley,  looking  up  from  the  table 
over  which  he  was  leaning,  for  he  went  on  knocking  the  balls 
about ;  "  devilish  well  acted  !  But  you  needn't  try  to  come 
the  old  soldier  over  me.  I'm  not  quite  such  a  fool  as 
that." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  coriiing  the  old  soLlier. 
I  only  asked  you  to  let  the  cottage,  and  1  will  be  responsible 
for  the  rent.     I'll  pay  in  advance  if  you  like." 

"  Yes,  you  want  me  to  let  the  cottage  for  you  to  put  in  this 
girl." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Tom,  interrupting  him,  and 
scarcely  able  to  keep  his  temper ;  "  1  told  you  it  was  for  this 
young  Winburn." 

"  Of  course  you  told  me  so.     Ha,  ha  ! " 

"  And  you  don't  believe  me." 

"  Come,  now,  all's  fair  in  love  and  war.  Euc,  I  tell  you, 
you  needn't  be  mealy-moutned  with  mc.  You  don't  mind 
his  living  there  ;  he's  away  at  work  all  day,  eh  1  and  his  wife 
stays  at  home." 

**Mr.  Wurley,  I  give  you  my  honour  I  never  saw  the  girl 
in  my  life  that  I  know  of,  and  I  don't  know  that  she  will 
marry  hirt." 

"What  did  you  talk  about  your  friend  for,  then?"  said 
Mr.  Wurley,  stopping  and  staring  at  Tom,  curiosity  beginning 
to  mingle  with  his  look  of  cunning  unbelief. 

"  Because  I  meant  just  what  I  said." 

"And  the  friend,  then?" 

"  I  have  told  you  several  times  that  this  young  Winburn 
is  the  man." 

"  What,  1/our  friend .?  " 

''  Yes  my  friend,"  said  Tom  ;  and  he  felt  himself  getting 
red  at  having  to  call  Harry  his  friend  in  such  company.  Mr. 
Wurley  looked  at  him  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  took  his 
leg  ofi  the  billiard  table,  and  came  round  to  Tom  with  the 

B    B 


370  TOM    HROWN    AT    OXFOKD. 

sort  of  patronizing  air  with  which  he  had  lectured  hiiii  on 

billiards. 

"  I  say,  Brown,  I'll  give  you  a  piece  of  advice,"  he  said. 
"  You're  a  young  fellow,  and  haven't  seen  anything  of  tlie 
world.  Oxford's  all  very  well,  but  it  isn't  the  world.  Now 
i  tell  you,  a  young  fellow  can't  do  himself  greater  harm  than 
getting  into  low  company  and  talking  as  you  have  been  talk- 
ing. It  might  ruin  you  in  the  county.  That  sort  of  radical 
stuif  won't  do,  yoi;  know,  calling  a  farm  labourer  your  friend  " 
Tom  chafed  at  this  advice  fiom  a  man  who,  he  well  knew, 
was  notoriously  in  the  habit  of  entertaining  at  his  house,  ard 
living  familiarly  with,  betting  men  and  tiainers,  and  all  the 
rifP-rafif  of  the  turf  But  he  restrained  himself  by  a  consider- 
able effort,  and,  instead  of  retorting,  as  he  felt  inclined  to  do, 
said,  with  an  attempt  to  laugh  it  off,  "  Thank  you,  I  don't 
think  there's  much  fear  of  my  turning  radical.  But  will  you 
let  me  the  cottage  1 " 

"  My  agent  manages  all  that.  We  talked  about  pulling  it 
down.  The  cottage  is  in  my  preserves,  and  I  don't  mean  to 
have  some  poaching  fellow  there  to  be  sneaking  out  at  night 
after  my  pheasants." 

"  But  his  grandfather  and  great-grandfather  lived  there." 
"  ]  dare  say,  but  it's  my  cottage." 
"  But  surely  that  gives  him  a  claim  to  it." 
"  D — n  it !  it's  my  cottage.     You're  not  going  to  tell  me  I 
mayn't  do  what  I  like  with  it,  I  suppose." 

"  I  only  said  that  his  family  having  lived  there  so  long 
gives  him  a  claim." 

"  A  claim  to  what  ?  These  are  some  more  of  your  cursed 
radical  notions.  I  think  they  might  teach  you  something 
better  at  Oxford. 

Tom  was  now  perfectly  cool,  but  withal  in  such  a  tremen- 
dous fury  of  excitement  that  he  forgot  the  interests  of  his 
client  altogether. 

"  I  came  here,  sir,"  he  said,  very  quietly  and  slowly,  "not 
to  request  your  advice  on  my  own  account,  or  your  opinion 
on  the  studies  of  Oxford,  valuable  as  no  doubt  they  are  ;  I 
camfi  to  ask  you  to  let  this  cottage  to  me,  and  I  wish  to  have 
your  answer." 

"  I'll  be  d — d  if  I  do  ;  there's  my  answer." 
"  Very  well,"  said  Tom  ;  "  then  I  have  only  to  wish  you 
good  morning.  I  am  sorry  to  have  wasted  a  day  in  the 
sompany  of  a  man  who  sets  up  for  a  country  gentleman  witli 
the  tongue  of  a  Thames  bargee  and  the  heart  of  a  Jew  pawn- 
broker." 

Mr.  Wurley  rushed    to    the    bell   and    rang   it  furiou^'y. 


I 


BROWN  PATRONUR.  371 

"  P.y — !"  he  almost  screaraed,  shaking  hi?  list  at  Tom,  "  I'll 
have  you  hovPcwliip]ied  out  of  my  house  ;"  and  then  poured 
forth  a  flood  of  uncomplimentary  slang,  ending  in  another  pull 
at  the  bell,  and  "  By  — !  I'll  have  you  horsewhipped  out  of 
my  house." 

"  You  had  better  try  it  on — you  and  your  flunkeys  to- 
gether," said  Tom,  taking  a  cigar-case  out  of  his  pocket  and 
lighting  up,  the  most  defiant  and  exasjjerating  action  he  could 
think  of  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  "  Here's  one  of  them  ; 
so  I'll  leave  j'ou  to  give  him  his  orders,  and  wait  five  minutes 
in  the  hall,  where  there's  more  room."  And  so,  leaving  the 
footman  gajjing  at  his  lord,  he  turned  on  his  heel,  with  the 
air  of  Bernardo  del  Carpio  after  he  had  bearded  King  Al- 
phonso,  and  walked  into  the  hall. 

He  heard  men  running  to  and  fro,  and  doors  banging,  aa 
he  stood  there  looking  at  the  old  buff-coats,  and  rather  thhsting 
for  a  fight.  Presently  a  door  opened,  and  the  portly  butler 
shuffled  in,  looking  considerably  embarrassi'd,  and  said, — 

"  Please,  sir,  to  go  out  quiet,  else  he'll  be  having  one  of  his 
fits." 

"  Your  master,  you  mean." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  butler,  nodding,  '' I").  T. ,  sir.  After 
one  of  his  rages  the  black  dog  comes,  and  it's  hawful  work  ; 
so  I  hope  you'll  go,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  of  course  I'll  go.  I  don't  want  to  give  him  a 
fit."  Saying  which,  Tom  walked  oiit  of  the  hall-door,  and 
leisurely  round  to  the  stables,  where  he  found  already  signs 
of  commotion.  Without  regarding  them,  he  got  his  horso 
saddled  and  bridled,  and,  after  looking  him  over  carefully, 
and  pattmg  him,  and  feeling  his  girths  in  the  yard,  in  the 
presence  of  a  cluster  of  retainers  of  one  sort  or  another,  who 
were  gathering  from  the  house  and  offices,  and  looking  sorely 
puzzled  whether  to  commence  hostdilics  or  not,  mounted  and 
walked  quietly  out. 

After  his  anger  had  been  a  little  cooled  by  the  fresh  air  of  the 
wild  country  at  the  back  of  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  which  he  struck 
into  on  his  way  home  soon  after  leaving  the  park,  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that,  however  satisfactory  to  himself  the  results 
of  his  encounter  with  this  unjust  landlord  might  seem,  they 
would  probably  prove  anything  but  agreeable  to  the  would-be 
tenant,  Harry  Winburn.  In  fact,  as  he  meditated  on  the 
matter,  it  became  clear  to  him  that  m  the  course  of  one 
morning  he  had  j^robably  exasperated  old  Simon  against  his 
aspirant  son-in-law,  and  put  a  serious  spoke  in  Harry's  love- 
wheel,  on  the  one  hand,  while  on  the  other,  he  had  insurcil 
his  speedy  expi;lsiou  from  his  cottage,  if  not  the  demolition  of 
B  15  ^ 


372  TOM   BEOWN   AT   OXTOED. 

that  building.  Wlierenpon  he  became  somewhat  low  nndor 
the  convictior  that  liis  friendship,  which  was  to  work  such 
wonders  for  the  said  Harry,  and  deliver  him  out  of  all  his 
troubles,  had  as  yet  only  made  his  whole  look-out  in  the 
world  very  much  darker  and  more  dusty.  In  short,  as  yet  he 
had  managed  to  do  considerably  less  than  nothing  for  his 
friend,  and  he  felt  very  smaU  before  he  got  home  that  evening. 
He  Avas  far,  however,  from  being  prepared  for  the  serious  way 
in  which  his  father  looked  upon  his  day's  proceedings.  Mr. 
Brown  was  sitting  by  himself  after  dinner  when  his  son  turned 
up,  and  liad  to  drink  several  extra  glasses  of  port  to  keep 
himself  decently  composed,  while  Tom  narrated  the  events  of 
the  day  in  the  intervals  of  his  attacks  on  the  dinner,  which 
was  brought  back  for  him.  When  the  servant  had  cloarerl 
away,  Mr.  Brown  proceeded  to  comment  on  the  history  in  a 
most  decided  manner. 

Tom  Avas  wrong  to  go  to  the  Grange  in  the  first  instance  ; 
and  this  part  of  the  homily  was  amplified  by  a  discourse  oa 
the  corruption  of  the  turf  in  general,  and  the  special  curse  of 
small  country  races  in  particular,  which  such  men  as  Wurley 
supported,  antl  which,  but  for  them,  would  cease.  Racing, 
which  used  to  be  the  pastune  of  great  people,  who  could  well 
afford  to  spend  a  few  thousands  a  year  on  their  pleasure,  had 
now  mostly  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  very  worst  and  lowest 
men  of  aU  classes,  most  of  whom  would  not  scruple — as  Mr 
Brown  strongly  put  it — to  steal  a  copper  out  of  a  blind 
beggar's  hat.  If  he  must  go,  at  any  rate  he  might  have  done 
nis  errand  and  come  away,  instead  of  staying  there  all  day 
accepting  the  man's  hospitality.  Mr.  Brown  liimself  really 
should  be  much  embarrassed  to  know  what  to  do  if  the  man 
should  happen  to  attend  the  next  sessions  or  assizes. 

But,  above  all,  having  accepted  his  hospitality,  to  turn  round 
at  the  end  and  insult  the  man  in  his  ow-n  house  !  This 
seemed  to  Brown,  J.P.  a  monstrous  and  astounding  performance. 

This  new  way  of  putting  matters  took  Tom  entirely  by 
surprise.  He  attempted  a  defence,  but  in  vain.  His  father 
admitted  that  it  would  be  a  hard  case  if  Harry  were  turned 
out  of  his  cottage,  but  wholly  refused  to  listen  to  Tom's 
endeavours  to  prove  that  a  tenant  in  such  a  case  had  any 
claim  or  right  as  against  his  landlord.  A  weekly  tenant  was 
a  weekly  tenant,  and  no  succession  of  weeks'  holding  could 
make  him  anything  more.  Tom  foiuid  himself  rushing  into 
a  line  of  argument  which  astonished  himself  and  sounded 
wild,  but  in  which  he  felt  sure  there  was  some  truth,  and 
which,  therefore,  he  would  not  abandon,  though  his  father 
was  cyidently  annoyed,  and  called  it  mere  niisehievoiis  senti- 


.■VTHAEN    ArAN.  373 

menl.  Each  was  more  moved  tbau  he  would  have  liked  to 
own  ;  each  in  his  owti  heart  felt  aggi-ieved,  and  blamed  tht 
other  for  not  understanding  him.  Eut,  though  obstinate  on 
the  general  question,  upon  the  point  of  his  leaving  the  Grange, 
Tom  Avas  fau'ly  brought  to  shame,  and  gave  in  at  last,  and 
expressed  his  sorrow,  though  he  could  not  help  maintaining 
tliat,  if  his  father  could  have  heard  what  took  place,  and  seen 
the  man's  manner,  he  would  scarcely  blame  him  for  what  be 
bad  said  and  done.  Havdng  once  owned  himself  in  the  wrong, 
however,  there  was  nothmg  for  it  but  to  write  an  apology,  tho 
composition  of  which  was  as  disagreeable  a  task  as  had  ovoi 
fallen  to  his  lot. 


CHAPTER  XXX  IT 

MHAEN  AFAN. 

Has  any  person,  of  any  nation  or  language,  found  out  and 
given  to  the  world  any  occupation,  work,  diversion,  or  pursuit, 
more  subtlely  dangerous  to  the  susceptible  youth  of  both 
sexes  than  that  of  nuttmg  in  pairs.  If  so,  who,  where,  what  1 
A  few  years  later  in  life,  perhaps  district  visiting,  and  atteud- 
iiig  schools  together,  may  in  certain  instances  be  more  fatal ; 
but,  in  the  first  bright  days  of  youth,  a  day's  nutting  against 
the  world  !  A  day  in  autumn,  warm  enough  to  make  sitting 
in  sheltered  nooks  in  the  woods,  wherever  the  sunshine  lies, 
very  pleasant,  and  yet  not  too  warm  to  make  exercise  uncom- 
fortable— two  young  people  who  have  been  thrown  much 
together,  one  of  whom  is  conscious  of  the  state  of  his  feelings 
towards  the  other,  and  is,  moreover,  aware  that  his  hours  are 
numbered,  that  in  a  few  days  at  furthest  they  will  be  se})arated 
for  many  months,  that  persons  in  authority  on  both  sides  are 
Vjt'ginniiig  to  suspect  something  (as  is  apparent  from  the  diiB- 
culty  they  have  had  in  getting  away  together  at  all  on  thi.^ 
same  afternoon) — here  is  a  conjunction  of  persons  and  cir- 
cumstances,  if  ever  there  was  one  in  the  world,  which  is 
surely  likely  to  end  in  a  catastrophe.  Indeed,  so  obvious  to 
the  meanest  capacity  is  the  danger  of  the  situation,  that,  as 
Tom  had,  in  his  own  mind,  staked  his  character  for  resolution 
with  his  private  self  on  the  keeping  of  his  secret  till  after  he 
was  of  age,  it  is  hard  to  conceive  how  he  can  have  been 
{(jiilish  enough  to  get  himself  into  a  hazel  copse  alone  with 
]\liss  IVIary  on  the  eaiHest  day  he  could  manage  it  after  the 
arrival  of  the  Porters,  on  their  visit  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown- 
That  is  to  say,  it  would  be  hard  to  conceive,  if  it  didn't  just 
happen  to  be  the  most  natiu'al  thing  in  the  world. 


374  roM  BROWN  at  oxfoed. 

For  the  first  twentj^-four  hours  after  their  meeiing  in  the 
home  of  his  fathers,  the  two  young  people,  and  Tom  in  parti 
cular,  felt  very  uncomfortable.  Mary,  being  a  young  lady 
of  very  high  spirits,  and,  as  readers  may  probably  have 
discovered,  much  given  to  that  kind  of  conversation  which 
borders  as  nearly  upon  what  men  commonly  call  chaff  as  a 
well-bred  girl  can  venture  on,  was  annoyed  to  find  herself 
quite  at  fault  in  all  her  attempts  to  get  her  old  antagonist  of 
C'ommemoration  to  show  fight.  She  felt  in  a  moment  how 
changed  his  manner  was,  and  thought  it  by  no  means  changed 
for  the  better.  As  for  Tom,  he  felt  foolish  and  shy  at  first, 
to  an  extent  which  drove  him  half  wild ;  his  words  stuck  in 
his  throat,  and  he  took  to  blushing  again  like  a  boy  of 
fourteen.  In  fact,  he  got  so  angry  with  himself  that  ho 
rather  avoided  her  actual  presence,  though  she  was  scarcely  a 
moment  out  of  his  sight.  Mr.  Brown  made  the  best  of  his 
Bon's  retreat,  devoted  himself  most  gallantly  to  Mary,  and 
was  completely  captivated  by  her  before  bedtime  on  the  first 
night  of  their  visit.  He  triumphed  over  his  wife  when  they 
were  alone,  and  laughed  at  the  groundlessness  of  her  sus- 
picions. But  she  was  by  no  means  so  satisfied  on  the  subject 
as  her  husband. 

In  a  day  or  two,  however,  Tom  began  to  take  heart  of 
grace,  and  to  find  himself  oftener  at  Mary's  side,  with  some- 
tliing  to  say,  and  more  to  look.  But  now  she,  in  her  turn, 
began  to  be  embarrassed  ;  for  all  attempts  to  re-establish  their 
old  footing  failed,  and  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  satisfactory 
new  one  remained  to  be  solved.  So  for  the  present,  though 
neither  of  them  found  it  quite  satisfactory,  they  took  refuge 
in  the  presence  of  a  third  party,  and  attached  themselves  to 
Katie,  talking  at  one  another  through  her.  Nothing  could 
exceed  Katie's  judiciousness  as  a  medium  of  communication ; 
and  through  her  a  better  understanding  began  to  establish 
itself,  and  the  visit  which  both  of  them  had  been  looking 
forward  to  so  eagerly  seemed  likely,  after  all,  to  be  as  pleasant 
in  fact  as  it  had  been  in  anticipation.  As  they  became  more 
at  ease,  the  vigilance  of  Mrs.  Brown  and  Mrs.  Porter  seemed 
likely  to  revive.  But  in  a  country  house  there  must  be 
plenty  of  chances  for  young  folk  who  mean  it,  to  be  together; 
and  so  they  found  and  made  use  of  their  opportunities,  giving 
at  the  same  time  as  little  cause  to  their  natural  guardians  as 
possible  for  any  serious  interference.  The  families  got  on, 
on  the  whole,  so  well  together,  that  the  visit  was  prolonged 
from  the  original  four  or  five  days  to  a  fortnight;  and  this 
time  of  grace  was  drawing  to  a  close  when  the  event  happened 
which  made  the  visit  memorable  to  our  hero. 


MHAEN    AFAN.  OIO 

On  tho  morning  in  question,  !^^r.  T'rown  arranged  at  break- 
fast that  he  and  his  wile  should  drive  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Porter  to 
make  calls  on  several  of  the  neighbours.  Tom  declared  liis 
i]itention  of  taking  a  long  day  after  the  partridges,  and  the 
young  ladies  were  to  go  and  make  a  sketch  of  the  house  from 
a  ix)int  which  Katie  had  chosen.  Accordingly,  directly  after 
luncheon,  the  carriage  came  round,  and  the  elders  departed  ; 
and  the  young  ladies  started  together,  carrying  their  sketching 
apparatus  with  them. 

It  was  probably  a  bad  day  for  scent ;  for  they  had  not  been 
gone  a  quarter  of  an  hour  when  Tom  came  home,  deposited 
his  gun,  and  followed  on  their  steps.  He  found  them  sitting 
under  the  lee  of  a  high  bank,  sufficiently  intent  on  their 
drawings,  but  neither  surprised  nor  sorry  to  find  that  he  had 
altered  his  mind,  and  come  back  to  internipt  them.  So  he 
lay  down  near  them,  and  talked  of  Oxford,  and  Englebourn, 
and  so  from  one  thing  to  another,  till  he  got  upon  the  subject 
of  nutting,  and  the  sylvan  beauties  of  a  neighbouring  wood. 
Mary  was  getting  on  badly  with  her  drawing,  and  jumi>ed  at 
the  idea  of  a  ramble  in  the  wood ;  but  Katie  was  obdurate, 
and  resisted  all  their  solicitations  to  move.  She  suggested, 
however,  that  they  might  go  ;  and,  as  Tom  declared  that  they 
should  not  be  out  of  call,  and  would  be  back  in  half  an  hour 
at  furthest,  INTary  consented  ;  and  they  left  the  sketcher,  and 
strolled  together  out  of  the  fields,  and  into  the  road,  and  so 
through  a  gate  into  the  wood.  It  was  a  pleasant  oak  wood. 
The  W-M  flowers  were  over,  but  the  great  masses  of  ferns, 
four  or  uve  feet  high,  made  a  grand  caipet  round  the  stems 
of  the  forest  monarchs,  and  a  fitting  couch  for  here  and  there 
one  of  them  which  had  been  lately  felled,  and  lay  in  fallen 
majesty,  with  bare  shrouded  trunk  awaiting  the  sawyers. 
Further  on,  the  hazel  underwood  stood  thickly  on  each  side 
of  the  green  rides,  down  which  they  sauntered  side  by  side, 
Tom  talked  of  the  beauty  of  the  wood  in  Spring-time,  and 
the  glorious  succession  of  colouring — pale  yellow,  and  deep 
blue  and  white,  and  purple — which  the  primroses,  and  hya- 
cinths and  starwort,  and  foxgloves  gave,  each  in  their  turn, 
in  the  early  year,  and  mourned  over  their  absence.  But 
liklary  preferred  Autumn,  and  would  not  agree  with  him.  She 
was  enthiisiastic  for  ferns  and  heathnr.  He  gathered  some 
sprigs  of  the  latter  for  her,  from  a  little  sandy  patch  which 
they  passed,  and  some  more  for  his  own  button-hole  ;  and 
then  they  engaged  in  the  absorliing  pursuit  of  imtting,  and 
the  talk  almost  ceased.  He  caught  the  higher  branches,  and 
bent  them  down  to  her,  and  watclied  her  as  she  gathered 
them,  and  wondered  at  the  ease  and  grace  of  all  her  move- 


376  TUM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD, 

ments.  aud  tlie  unconscious  beauty  of  her  attitudes.  Sooa 
she  became  more  enterprising  herself,  and  made  little  excur- 
sions into  the  copse,  surmounting  briers,  and  passing  through 
tangled  places  like  a  Naiad,  before  he  could  be  there  to  help 
her.  And  so  they  went  on,  along  the  rides  and  through  the 
copse,  forgetting  Katie  and  time,  till  they  were  brought  up 
by  the  fence  on  the  further  side  of  the  wood.  The  ditch  was 
on  the  outside,  and  on  the  inside  a  bank  with  a  hedge  on  the 
top,  fuU  of  tempting  hazel-bushes.  She  clapped  her  hands  at 
the  sight,  and,  declining  his  help,  stepped  Lightly  up  the  bank, 
and  began  gathering.  He  turned  away  for  a  moment,  jumped 
up  the  bank  himself,  and  foDowed  her  example. 

He  was  standing  up  in  the  hedge,  and  reaching  after  a 
tempting  cluster  of  nuts,  when  he  heard  a  short  sharp  cry  of 
pain  behind  him,  which  made  him  spring  backwards,  and 
nearly  miss  his  footing  as  he  came  to  the  ground.  Recovering 
himself,  and  turning  round,  he  saw  Mary  lying  at  the  foot  of 
the  bank,  writhing  in  pain. 

He  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant,  and  dreadfully  alarmed. 

"  Good  heavens  !  what  has  happened  ?  "  he  said. 

"  My  ancle  ! "  she  cried  ;  and  the  effort  of  speaking  brought 
the  sudden  flush  of  pain  to  her  brow. 

"  Oh  !  what  can  I  do  1" 

"  The  boot !  the  boot !  "  she  said,  leaning  forward  to  unlace 
it,  and  then  sinking  back  against  the  bank.  "  It  is  so  painfuL 
I  hope  I  sha'n't  faint." 

Poor  Tom  could  only  clasp  his  hands  as  he  knelt  by  her, 
and  repeat,  "  Oh,  what  can  I  do — what  can  I  do  1 "  His 
utter  bewilderment  presently  roused  Mary,  and  her  natural 
high  courage  was  beginning  to  master  the  pain. 

"  Have  you  a  knife  1 " 

"  Yes — here,"  he  said,  pulling  one  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
opening  it ;  "  here  it  is." 

"  Please  cut  the  lace." 

Tom,  with  beating  heart  and  trembling  hand,  cut  the  lace, 
and  then  looked  up  at  her. 

"  Oh,  be  quick — cut  it  again  !    Don't  be  afmid." 

He  cut  it  again ;  and,  without  takmg  hold  of  the  foot, 
gently  pulled  out  the  ends  of  the  lace. 

She  again  leaned  forward,  aud  tried  to  take  off  the  boot  ^ 
but  the  pain  was  too  great,  and  she  sank  back,  and  put  her 
hand  up  to  her  flushed  face. 

"  May  I  try  1 — perhaps  I  could  do  it." 

"  Yes,  pray  do.  Oh,  I  can't  bear  the  pain  ! "  she  added, 
next  moment ;  and  Tom  felt  ready  to  hang  himself  for  haviiig 
bjen  the  cause  of  it. 


MHAEN    AFAN  377 

"  You  must  cut  the  boot  oif,  please." 
"  But  perhaps  I  may  cut  you.    Do  you  really  mean  it  ?" 
"  Yes,  really.     There,  take  care.     How  your  haud  shakes. 
You  will  uever  do  for  a  doctor." 

His  hand  did  shake,  certainly.  He  had  cut  a  little  hole 
in  the  stocking ;  but,  under  the  circumsUinces,  we  need  not 
wondier — the  situation  was  new  and  trying.  Urged  on  by 
her,  he  cut  and  cut  away,  and,  at  last,  otf  Ciime  the  boot,  and 
her  beautiful  little  foot  lay  on  the  green  turf.  She  was  much 
relieved  at  once,  but  still  in  great  pain ;  and  now  he  began  to 
recover  his  head. 

"  The  ankle  should  be  bound  up  ;  may  I  try  1 " 
"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  what  with  ?  " 

Tom  dived  into  his  shooting-coat  pocket,  and  produced 
one  of  the  large,  many-coloured  neck-wrappers  which  were 
fashionable  at  Oxford  in  those  days. 

"  How  lucky  !  "  he  said,  as  he  tore  it  into  strips.  "  I  think 
this  will  do.  ISow,  you'll  stop  me,  Avon't  you,  if  I  hurt,  or 
don't  do  it  right  ?  " 

"  Do]i't  be  afraid ,  I'm  mtich  better.  Bind  it  tight — 
tighter  than  that." 

He  Avound  the  strips  as  tenderly  as  he  could  round  her  foot 
and  anlile,  with  hands  all  alive  with  nerves,  and  wondering 
more  and  more  at  her  courage  as  she  kept  urging  him  to 
draw  the  bandage  tighter  yet.  Then,  still  under  her  direc- 
tion, he  fastened  and  i)inned  down  the  ends ;  and  as  he  was 
rather  neat  with  his  fingers,  from  the  practice  of  tying  llies 
and  splicing  rods  and  bats,  produced,  on  the  whole,  a  cre- 
ditable sort  of  bandage.  Then  he  looked  up  at  her,  the 
perspiration  standing  on  his  foi^^^^^ad,  as  if  he  had  been 
pulling  a  race,  and  said  : 

"  Will  that  do  1     I'm  afraid  it's  very  aAvkward." 
"  Oh,   no  ;  thank   you  so  much  !     But   I'm   so  sorry  you 
have  torn  your  handkerchief 

Tom  made  no  answer  to  this  remaik,  except  by  a  look. 
What  could  he  say,  but  that  he  would  gladly  have  torn  his 
skin  off  for  the  same  purpose,  if  it  would  have  been  of  any  use. 
But  this  speech  did  not  seem  quite  the  thing  for  the  moment. 
"But  how  do  you  feel  1  Is  it  very  painful  1"  he  asked. 
"  Bather.  But  don't  look  so  anxious.  Indeed,  it  is  very 
bearable.     But  what  are  we  to  do  now  1 " 

He  thought  foi  a  moment,  and  said,  with  something  like  a 
sigh— 

"  Shall  I  run  home,  and  bring  the  servants  and  a  go £9.5  or 
something  to  cai'ry  you  on  ?" 

*'l!^u,  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  Mt  here  alouu" 


378  TOM   BROWN    A.T   OXFORD. 

His  face  briglitened  again. 

"  How  near  is  the  nearest  cottage  V  she  asked. 

"  There's  none  nearer  than  the  one  which  we  passed  on  the 
road — on  the  other  side  of  the  wood,  you  know." 

"  Then  I  must  try  to  get  there.     You  must  help  me  up." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  stooped  over  her,  doubting  how 
to  begin  helping  her.     He  had  never  felt  so  shy  in  his  life. 
He  held  out  his  hands. 

"  I  think  you  must  put  your  arm  round  me,"  she  said,  after 
looking  at  him  for  a  moment.      He  lifted  her  on  to  her  feet. 

"Now,  let  me  lean  on  your  arm.  There,  I  daresay  I  shall 
manage  to  hobble  along  well  enough  ;"  and  she  made  a  brave 
attempt  to  walk.  But  the  moment  the  injured  foot  touched 
the  ground,  she  stopped  with  a  catch  of  her  breath,  and  a 
shiver,  which  went  through  Tom  like  a  knife  ;  and  the  flush 
came  back  into  her  face,  and  she  would  have  fallen  had  lie 
not  again  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  held  her  up.  "  I 
am  better  again  now,"  she  said,  after  a  second  or  two. 

"  But  Mary,  dear  INIary,  don't  try  to  walk  again.  For  my 
sake.     I  can't  bear  it." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?"  she  said.  "I  must  get  back 
somehow." 

"  Will  you  let  me  carry  you  1" 

She  looked  in  his  face  again,  and  then  dropped  her  eyes, 
and  hesitated. 

"  I  wouldn't  offer,  dear,  if  there  were  any  other  way.  But 
you  mustn't  walk.  Indeed,  you  must  nut ;  you  may  lame 
yourself  for  life." 

He  spoke  very  quietly,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
though  his  heart  was  beating  so  that  he  feared  she  would 
hear  it. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said  ;  "but  I'm  very  heavy." 

So  he  lifted  her  gently,  and  stepped  off  down  the  ride, 
carrying  his  whole  world  in  his  arms,  in  an  indescribable 
flutter  of  joy,  and  triumph,  and  fear.  He  had  gone  some 
forty  yai'ds  or  so,  when  he  staggered,  and  stopped  for  a 
moment. 

"  Oh,  pray  put  me  do^vn — pray  do  !  You'll  hurt  yoursel£ 
I'm  too  heavy." 

For  the  credit  of  muscular  Christianity,  one  must  say  that 
it  was  not  her  weight,  but  the  tumult  in  his  own  inner  man, 
which  made  her  bearer  totter.  Nevertheless,  if  one  is  wholly 
unused  to  the  exercise,  the  carrying  a  healthy  young  English 
girl  weighing  a  good  eight  stone,  is  as  much  as  most  men  can 
conveniently  manage. 

"I'll  just  put  you  down  for  a  moment,"  he  said.     "Now 


MHAEN    AFAN.  O  llf 

take  care  of  the  foot ;"  and  he  stooped,  and  placed  her 
tenderly  against  one  of  the  oaks  which  bordered  the  ride, 
standing  by  her  side  without  looking  at  her.  Neither  of 
them  spoke  for  a  minute.  Then  he  asked,  still  looking  away 
down  the  ride,  "  How  is  the  foot  1" 

"  Oh,  pretty  well,"  slie  answered,  cheerfully.  "  Now,  leave 
me  here,  and  go  for  help.  It  is  absurd  of  me  to  mind  being 
left,  and  you  mustn't  carry  me  any  mure." 

He  turned,  and  their  eyes  met  for  a  moment,  but  that  was 
enough. 

"  Are  you  ready  V  he  said. 

"  Yes,  but  take  care.  Don't  go  far.  Stop  directly  you 
feel  tired." 

I'll  en  he  lifted  her  again,  and  this  time  carried  her  without 
faltering,  till  they  came  to  a  hillock  covered  with  soft  grass, 
Here  they  rested  again,  and  so  by  easy  stages  he  carried  her 
through  the  wood,  and  out  into  the  road,  to  the  neai'est 
cottage,  neither  of  them  speaking. 

An  old  woman  came  to  the  door  in  answer  to  his  kick,  and 
went  off  into  ejaculations  of  pity  and  wonder  in  the  broadest 
Berkshire,  at  seeing  Master  Tom  and  his  burthen.  But  he 
jjushed  into  the  house  and  cut  her  short  with — 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Pike,  don't  talk,  that's  a  dear  good  woman,  but 
bustle  about,  and  bring  that  arm-chair  here,  and  the  other  low 
one,  with  a  pillow  on  it,  for  the  young  lady's  foot  to  rest  on." 

The  old  woman  obeyed  Ms  injunctions,  except  as  to  talking  ; 
and,  while  she  placed  the  chairs  and  shook  up  the  pillow, 
descanted  on  the  sovereign  virtues  of  some  green  oil  and 
opodeldoc,  which  was  as  g"^"-'.  as  a  charm  for  sprains  and 
bruises. 

]\Iary  gave  him  one  grateful  look  as  he  loAvered  her  tenderly 
and  reluctantly  into  the  chair,  and  then  spoke  clieerfully  to 
Mrs.  Pike,  who  was  foraging  in  a  clipboard,  to  find  if  there 
was  any  of  her  famous  specific  in  tlie  bottom  of  the  bottle. 
As  he  stood  up,  and  thuuglit  what  to  do  next,  he  heard  the 
sound  of  distant  wheels,  and  looking  through  the  windo\v  saw 
the  carriage  coming  homewards.  It  was  a  sorrowful  sight  to 
him. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Pike,"  he  said,  "  never  mind  the  oik  Here's 
the  carriage  coming  ;  just  step  out  and  stop  it." 

The  old  dame  scuttled  out  into  the  road.  The  carriage  was 
Avithin  one  hundred  yards.  He  leant  over  the  rough  arm- 
chair in  wdiich  she  was  leaning  back,  looked  once  more  into 
her  eyes  ;  and  then,  stooping  forwards,  kissed  her  lips,  and 
the  next  moment  was  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Pike,  signalling  the 
coacliman  to  stop. 


380  TOM  BKOVVN  AT  OXFORD. 

In  the  bustle  which  followed  he  stood  aside.,  and  watched 
Mary  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth.  She  never  looked  at  him, 
but  there  was  no  anger,  but  only  a  dreamy  look  in  her  sweet 
face,  which  seemed  to  him  a  thousand  times  more  beoutilal 
than  ever  before.  Then,  to  avoid  inquiries,  and  to  realize  all 
tiiat  had  passed  in  the  last  wonderful  thi'ee  hours,  he  slipped 
away  while  they  were  getting  her  into  the  carriage,  and 
wandered  back  into  the  wood,  pausing  at  each  of  their  halting 
places.  At  last  he  reached  the  scene  of  the  accident,  and 
here  his  cup  of  happiness  was  likely  to  brim  over,  for  he 
found  the  mangled  little  boot  and  the  cut  lace,  and  securing 
the  precious  prize,  hurried  back  home,  to  be  in  time  for 
dinner. 

IMary  did  not  come  down ;  but  Katie,  the  only  person  of 
whom  he  dared  to  inquire,  assured  him  that  she  was  doing 
famously.  The  dinner  was  very  embarrassing,  and  he  had 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  answering  the  searching  inquiries  of 
his  mother  and  Mrs.  Porter,  as  to  how,  when,  where,  and  in 
whose  presence  the  accident  had  happened.  As  soon  as  the 
ladies  rose,  he  left  his  father  and  Llr.  Porter  over  their  old 
port  and  politics,  and  went  out  in  the  twiliglit  into  the 
garden,  burthened  with  the  weight  of  sweet  thought.  He 
felt  that  he  had  something  to  do — to  set  himself  quite  riglit 
with  Mary  ;  he  nmst  speak  somehow,  that  niglit,  if  possible, 
or  he  should  not  be  comfortable  or  at  peace  with  his  con- 
science. There  were  lights  in  her  room.  He  guessed  by  the 
shadows  that  she  was  lying  on  a  couch  by  the  open  window, 
round  which  the  other  ladies  were  flitting.  Presently  lights 
appeared  in  the  drawing-room  ;  and,  as  the  shutters  were 
being  closed,  he  saw  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Porter  come  in,  and 
sit  down  near  the  fire.  Listening  intently,  he  heard  Katie 
talkuig  in  a  low  voice  in  the  room  above,  and  saw  her  head 
against  the  Ught  as  she  sat  down  close  to  the  window,  jjrobably 
at  the  head  of  the  couch  where  Mary  was  lying.  Should  he 
call  to  her'?  K  he  did  how  could  he  say  what  he  wanted  to 
say  through  her] 

A  happy  thought  struck  him.  He  turned  to  the  flower- 
beds, hunted  about  and  gathered  a  bunch  of  heliotiope, 
nurried  up  to  his  room,  took  the  sprig  of  heather  out  of  his 
shooting  coat,  tied  them  together,  caught  up  a  reel  and  line 
from  his  table,  and  went  into  the  room  over  Mary's.  He  thi-ew 
the  window  open,  and,  leaning  out,  said  gently,  "Katie."  No 
answer.  He  repeated  the  name  louder.  No  answer  still,  and, 
leaning  out  yet  further,  he  saw  that  the  window  had  been 
shut.  He  lowered  tlie  bunch  of  flowers,  and,  swinging  it 
backwards  and.  ibiwarda,  made  it  strike  the  window  below — 


MHAEN    ArAN.  381 

once,    twice ;    at   the    third    stroke    he    heard    the    wmdow 
open. 

"  Katie,"  he  whispered  again,  "  is  that  you  ?  " 
'*  Yes,  where  are  you  1     What  is  this  1 " 
For  her,"  he  said,  in  the  same  wliisper.     Katie  untied  the 
flowers,  and  he  waited  a  few  moments,  and  then  again  called 
her  name,  and  she  answered. 

"  Has  she  the  flowers  1"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  and  she  sends  you  lier  love,  and  says  you  are  to  go 
down  to  the  drawing-room  ;"  and  witli  tliat  the  window 
closed,  and  he  went  down  with  a  lightened  conscience  into 
the  drawing-room  and  after  joining  in  tlie  talk  by  tlie  fire 
for  a  few  minutes,  took  a  book,  and  sat  down  at  the  further 
side  of  the  table.  "Whether  he  ever  knew  what  the  book  was 
may  be  fairly  »|uestioned,  but  to  all  appearances  he  was  deep 
in  the  perusal  of  it  till  the  tea  and  Katie  arrived,  and  the 
gentlemen  from  the  dining-room.  Then  he  tried  to  join  in 
the  conversation  again  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  life  was  a  burthen 
to  him  that  night  till  he  could  get  fairly  away  to  his  own 
room,  and  commune  with  himself,  gazing  at  the  yellow  harvest 
moon,  with  his  elbows  on  the  windo\\'-sill. 

The  ankle  got  well  very  quickly,  and  INFary  was  soon  gomg 
about  with  a  gold-headed  stick  which  had  belonged  to  Mr. 
Brown's  father,  and  a  limp  which  Tom  thought  the  most 
beautiful  movement  he  had  ever  seen.  But,  though  she  was 
about  again,  by  no  amount  of  patient  vigilance  could  he  now  get 
the  chance  of  speaking  to  her  alone.  But  he  consoled  himself 
with  the  thought  that  she  must  understand  him ;  if  he  had 
spoken  he  coukln't  have  made  himself  clearer. 

And  now  the  Porters'  visit  was  all  but  over,  and  Katie  and 
her  father  left  for  Englelmurn.  The  Porters  were  to  follow 
the  next  day,  and  promised  to  drive  round  and  stop  at  the 
Rectory  for  lunch.  Tom  petitioned  for  a  seat  in  their  carriage 
to  Englebourn.  He  had  been  devoting  himself  to  Mrs.  Porter 
ever  since  the  accident,  and  had  told  her  a  good  deal  about 
nifl  own  eaily  life.  His  account  of  his  early  friendship  for 
Betty  and  her  son,  and  the  renewal  of  it  on  the  day  he  left 
Barton  Manor,  had  interested  her,  and  she  was  moreover  not 
insensible  to  his  assiduous  and  respectful  attentions  to  herself, 
which  had  of  late  been  quite  marked :  she  was  touched  too 
at  his  anxiety  to  hear  all  about  her  boys,  and  how  they  were 
going  on  at  school.  So  on  the  whole  Tom  was  in  high  favour 
witli  her,  and  she  most  graciously  assented  to  his  occupying 
the  fourth  seat  in  their  barouche.  She  was  not  without  her 
suspicions  of  the  real  state  of  the  case  with  him ;  but  his 
behdviour  had  been  so  discreet  that  she  had  no  immediate 


382  TOM    CliOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

fears  ;  and,  after  all,  if  anything  should  come  of  it  some  years 
hence  her  daughter  might  do  worse.  In  the  meantime  she 
v/ould  see  plenty  of  society  in  London ;  where  Mr.  Porter's 
vocations  kept  him  during  the  greater  part  of  the  year. 

They  readied  Englebourn  after  a  pleasant  long  morning';'? 
drive;  and  Tom  stole  a  glance  at  Mary,  and  felt  that  shu 
understood  him,  as  he  pointed  out  the  Hawk's  Lynch  and  the 
clump  of  Scotch  firs  to  her  mother;  and  told  how  you  might 
see  Barton  from  the  top  of  it,  and  how  he  loved  the  place,  and 
the  old  trees,  and  the  view. 

Katie  was  at  the  door  ready  to  receive  them,  and  carried 
off  Mary  and  Mrs.  Porter  to  her  own  room.  Tom  walked 
round  the  garden  with  Mr.  Porter,  and  then  s^in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  felt  melancholy.  He  roused  hiniself,  however, 
when  the  ladies  came  down  and  luiichg<m  was  announced. 
Mary  was  full  of  her  reminiscences  of>the  Englebourn  2:)eople, 
and  especially  or^peoJiJMrs.  ^W^inrhuTn  and  her  son,  in  whom 
she  had  begun  to  take  a  deep  interest,  perhaps  from  overhear- 
ing some  of  Tom's  talk  to  her  mother.  So  Harry's  story  was 
canvassed  again,  and  Katie  told  them  hoM'  he  had  been  turned 
out  of  his  cottage,  and  how  anxious  she  was  as  to  what  would 
come  of  it. 

"  And  is  he  going  to  marry  your  gardener's  daughter  after 
all  1 "  asked  Mrs.  Porter. 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  not  much  chance  of  it,"  said  Katie  ; 
"I  cannot  make  Martha  out." 

"  Is  she  at  home,  Katie  1 "  asked  Mary  ;  "  I  should  like  to 
see  her  again.     I  took  a  great  fancy  to  her  when  I  was  here." 

"Yes,  she  is  at  the  lodge.  We  will  walk  there  after 
luncheon." 

So  it  was  settled  that  the  carriage  should  pick  them  up  at 
the  lodge  ;  and  soon  after  luncheon,  while  the  horses  were 
being  put  to,  the  whole  party  started  for  the  lodge  after 
saying  good-bye  to  Mr.  Winter,  who  retired  to  his  room  much 
fatigued  by  his  unwonted  l^jspitality. 

Old  Simon's  wife  answered  their  knock  at  the  lodge  door, 
and  they  all  entered,  and  Mrs.  I'oiter  paid  her  compliments 
on  the  cleanliness  of  the  room. 

Then  INIary  said,  "  Is  your  daughter  at  home,  Mrs. 
Gibbons  1 " 

"  Ees,  miss,  someweres  handy,"  replied  Mrs.  Gibbons , 
'her  hav'n't  been  gone  out,  not  dree  minnit." 

"  I  should  like  so  much  to  say  good-bye  to  her,"  said  Mary. 
"  We  shall  be  leaving  Barton  soon,  and  I  shall  not  see  her 
again  till  next  summer." 

"Lor  bless'ee,    miss,  'tis  werrj  good  ov'ee,"  said  tie  old 


MHAEN    AFAN.  oS'6 

dame,  very  proud  ;  "  do'ee  set  down  then  while  I  goes  her  a 
call."  And  with  that  she  hurried  out  of  the  door  which  led 
through  the  back  kitchen  into  the  little  yard  behind  the 
lod^!*e,  and  the  next  moment  they  heard  her  calling  out — 

"  Patty,  Piitty,  wher  bist  got  to  1  Come  in  and  see  the 
gentlefolk." 

The  name  which  the  old  woman  was  calling  out  made  Tom 
stai't. 

"  I  thought  you  said  her  name  was  Martha,"  said  ]\Irs. 
Porter. 

"Patty  is  short  for  Martha  in  Berkshire,"  said  Katie, 
laughing. 

"  And  Patty  is  such  a  pretty  name.  I  wonder  you  don't 
call  her  Patty,"  said  jNIary. 

"  We  had  a  housemaid  of  the  same  name  a  year  or  two 
ago,  and  it  made  such  a  confusion — and  when  one  once  gets 
used  to  a  name  it  is  so  hard  to  change — so  she  has  always 
been  called  Martha." 

"  Well,  I'm  all  for  Patty  ;  don't  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Mary, 
turning  to  Tom. 

The  sudden  introduction  of  a  name  which  he  had  such 
reasons  for  remembering,  the  memories  and  fears  Avhich  it 
called  up — above  all,  the  bewilderment  which  he  felt  at  hear- 
ing it  tossed  about  and  canvassed  by  Mary  in  his  presence,  as 
if  there  were  nothing  niore  in  it  than  in  any  other  name — ■ 
confused  him  so  that  he  fl(nindered  and  blundered  in  his 
attempt  to  answer,  and  at  last  gave  it  up  altogetlier.  She  was 
surprised,  and  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  His  eyes  fell  before 
hers,  and  he  turned  away  to  the  window,  and  looked  at  the 
carriage,  which  had  just  drawn  up  at  the  lodge  door.  He  had 
scarcely  time  to  think  how  foolish  he  was  to  be  so  moved, 
when  he  heard  the  back-kitchen  door  open  again,  and  the  old 
woman  and  her  daughter  come  in.  He  turned  round  sharply, 
and  there  on  the  floor  of  the  room,  curtseying  to  the  ladies, 
stood  the  ex-barmaid  of  "  The  Chouglis."  His  first  impulse 
was  to  hurry  away — she  was  looking  down,  and  he  might  not 
be  recognised ;  his  next,  to  stand  his  ground,  and  take  what- 
ever might  come.  Mary  went  up  to  her  and  took  her  hand, 
saying  that  she  could  not  go  away  without  coming  to  see  her. 
Patty  looked  up  to  answer,  and,  glancing  round  the  room, 
caught  sight  of  him. 

He  stepped  forward,  and  then  stopped  and  tried  to  speak, 
but  no  words  would  come.  Patty  looked  at  him,  dropped 
Mary's  hand,  blushed  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair  as  she  looked 
timidly  round  at  the  wondering  spectators,  and,  putting  hci 
hands  to  her  face,  ran  out  of  the  back  door  again. 


384  TOM    BKOWX    AT    OXFORD. 

"  Lawk  a  Tnapsy  !  what  ever  can  ha'  cum  to  cm  pH.tty  ?  * 
said  Mrs.  Gibbons,  following  her  ont. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  go,"  said  ^Ir.  Porter,  giving  hia 
arm  to  his  daughter,  and  leading  her  to  the  door,  ''  Good-bye, 
Katie  ;  shall  we  see  you  again  at  Barton  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  uncle,"  Katie  answered,  foUo\ving  with 
Mrs.  Porter  in  a  state  of  sad  bewilderment 

Tom,  with  his  brain  s'wimming,  got  out  a  few  stammering 
farewell  words,  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Porter  received  with 
marked  coldness  as  they  stepped  into  their  carriage.  Marj^'s 
face  was  flushed  and  uneasy,  but  at  her  he  scarcely  dared  to 
steal  a  1  jok,  and  to  her  was  quite  unable  to  speak  a  word. 

Then  the  carriage  drove  off,  and  he  turned,  and  found  Katie 
standing  at  his  side,  her  eyes  full  of  serious  wonder.  Kis  fell 
before  them. 

"My  dear  Tom,"  she  said,  "what  is  all  this?  I  thought 
you  had  never  seen  Martha  ?  " 

"  So  I  thought — I  didn't  know — I  can't  talk  now — Til 
explain  all  to  you — don't  think  veiy  badly  of  me,  Katie — God 
bless  you  ! "  with  which  words  he  strode  away,  while  she 
looked  after  him  with  increasing  wonder,  and  then  turned  and 
went  into  the  lodge. 

He  hastened  away  from  the  Pectory  and  down  the  village 
street,  taking  the  road  home  mechanically,  but  other^vise 
wholly  unconscious  of  roads  and  men.  David,  who  was  very 
anxious  to  speak  to  him  about  Harry,  stood  at  his  door  making 
signs  to  him  to  ?top,  in  vain  :  and  then  gave  chase,  calling  out 
after  him,  till  he  saw  that  all  attempts  to  attract  his  notice 
were  useless,  and  so  ambled  back  to  his  shop-board  much 
troubled  in  mind. 

The  fijst  object  which  recalled  Tom  at  all  to  himself  was 
the  little  white  cottage  looking  out  of  Engleboum  copse 
towards  the  village,  in  which  he  had  sat  by  poor  Betty's 
death-bed.  The  garden  was  already  getting  wild  and  tangled, 
and  the  house  seemed  to  be  uninhabited.  He  stopped  for  a 
moment  and  looked  at  it  with  bitter  searchings  of  heart. 
Here  was  the  place  where  he  had  taken  such  a  good  tnrn,  a? 
he  had  fondly  hoped — m  counexion  vrith  the  then  Inmates  of 
which  he  had  made  the  stroncrest  good  re?olutions  he  had  eve'* 
made  in  his  life  perhaps.  "What  was  the  good  of  his  trying 
to  befriend  anybody  1  His  friendship  turned  to  a  blight ; 
whatever  he  had  as  yet  tried  to  do  for  HaiTV  had  only  injured 
him,  and  now  how  did  they  stand  !  Could  they  ever  be 
friends  again  after  that  day's  discovery  {  To  do  him  justice, 
the  probable  rain  of  all  his  own  prospects,  the  sudden  coldness 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Porter's  looks,  and  Mary's  averted  face,  vrere 


MHAhN    AFAN,  385 

not  the  things  he  thought  of  first,  and  did  not  trouble  him 
most.  He  thought  of  rlarry,  and  shuddered  at  the  wrong  he 
had  done  him  as  he  looked  at  his  deserted  home.  The  door 
opened  and  a  tigure  appeared.  It  was  Mr.  "Wurley's  agent, 
tlie  lawyer  who  had  been  employed  by  farmer  Tester  in  his 
contest  with  Harry  and  his  mates  about  the  pound.  The  man 
of  law  saluted  him  with  a  smirk  of  scarcely  concealed  triumi)h, 
and  then  turned  into  the  house  again  and  shut  the  door,  as  if 
he  did  not  consider  further  communication  nocossaiy  or  safe. 
Tom  turned  with  a  muttered  imprecation  on  him  and  his 
master,  and  h\irried  away  along  the  lane  which  led  to  the 
heath.  The  Hawk's  Lynch  lay  above  him,  and  he^cttmbc? 
the  side  mechanically  and  sat  himself  again  oaihe  old  spot. 

He  sat  for  some  time  looking  over  the  jamlscape,  graven  on 
his  mind  as  it  was  by  his  former  visit,  and  bitterly,  oh,  how 
bitterly  !  did  the  remembrance  of  that  visit,  and  of  the  exulta- 
tion and  triumpih  which  then  filled  him,  and  carried  him  away 
over  the  heath  ^^•ith  a  shout  towards  his  home,  come  back  on 
him.  He  could  look  out  from  his  watch-tower  no  longer,  and 
lay  down  with  his  face  between  his  hands  on  the  turf,  and 
groaned  as  he  lay. 

But  his  good  angel  seemed  to  haunt  the  place,  and  soon  the 
cold  fit  began  to  pass  away,  and  better  and  more  hopeful 
thoughts  to  return.  After  all,  what  had  he  done  since  his 
last  visit  to  that  place  to  be  ashamed  of?  Nothing.  His 
attempts  to  do  Harry  service,  xrnlucky  as  they  had  proved, 
had  been  honest.  Had  he  become  less  worthy  of  the  love 
which  had  first  consciously  mastered  liim  there  some  four 
weeks  ago  1  Xo  ;  he  felt,  on  the  contrary,  that  it  had  already 
raised  him,  and  purified  him,  and  made  a  man  of  him.  But 
this  last  discovery,  how  could  he  ever  get  oyer  that  ?  Well, 
after  all,  the  facts  were  just  the  same  as  before  ;  only  now 
they  had  come  out  It  was  right  that  they  should  have  come 
out ;  better  for  him  and  for  e\^ery  one  that  they  should  he 
knoAvn  and  faced.  He  was  ready  to  face  them,  to  abide  any 
consequences  that  they  might  now  bring  in  their  train.  His 
heart  was  right  towards  3Iary,  towards  Pattj^,  towards  Harry 
— that  he  felt  sure  of.  And,  if  so,  why  shoiild  he  despair  of 
either  his  love  or  his  friendship  coming  to  a  good  end  i 

And  so  he  sat  up  again,  and  looked  out  bravely  towards 
Barton,  and  began  to  consider  what  was  to  be  done.  His 
eyes  rested  on  the  Rectory.  That  was  the  first  place  to  begin 
with.  He  must  set  himself  right  with  Katie — let  her  know 
the  whole  story.  Tlirough  her  he  could  reach  all  the  rest 
and  do  whatever  must  be  done  to  clear  the  ground  and  start 
fre.sVi  again, 

c  c 


386  TOM   BROWN    AT   OXFORD. 

At  first  he  thought  of  returning  to  her  at  once,  and  rose  to 
go  down  to  Euglebourn.  But  anything  hke  retracing  his 
steps  was  utterly  distasteful  to  him  just  then.  Before  him  ho 
saw  light,  dim  enough  as  yet,  but  still  a  dawning ;  towards 
that  he  would  press,  leaving  everything  behind  him  to  take 
care  of  itself.  So  he  turned  northwards,  and  struck  across 
the  heath  at  his  best  pace.  The  violent  exercise  almost 
finished  his  cure,  and  his  thoughts  became  clearer  and  more 
hopeful  as  he  neared  home.  He  arrived  there  as  the  house- 
hold were  going  to  bed,  and  found  a  letter  waiting  for  him. 
It  was  from  Hardy,  saying  that  Blake  had  left  him,  and  he 
was  now  thinking  of  returning  to  Oxford,  and  Avould  come  for 
his  long-talked-of  visit  to  Berkshire,  if  Tom  was  still  at  home, 
and  in  the  mind  to  receive  liim. 

Never  was  a  lett(,>r  more  opportune.  Here  was  the  tried 
fi-iend  on  whom  he  could  rely  for  help  and  advice  and 
sympathy — who  knew  all  the  facts  too  from  beguining  to  end  ! 
His  father  and  mother  were  delighted  to  hear  that  they  should 
now  see  the  friend  of  whom  he  had  spoken  so  much.  So  he 
went  up  stairs,  and  wrote  an  answer,  which  set  Hardy  to  work 
packing  his  portmanteau  in  the  far  west,  and  brought  hiit. 
speedily  to  the  side  of  his  friend  under  the  lee  of  the  Berk- 
shire hills. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

SECOND    YEAR. 

For  some  days  after  his  return  home — in  fact,  until  hit, 
friend's  arrival,  Tom  was  thoroughly  beaten  down  and  wretched, 
notwitlistanding  his  efforts  to  look  hopefully  forward,  and 
keep  up  his  spirits.  His  usual  occupations  were  utterly  dis- 
tasteful to  him ;  and,  instead  of  occupying  himself,  ho  sal 
brooding  over  his  late  misfortune,  and  hopelessly  puzzling  his 
head  as  to  what  he  could  do  to  set  matters  right.  The  convic- 
tion in  which  he  always  landed  was  that  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done,  and  that  he  was  a  desolate  and  blighted  being, 
deserted  of  gods  and  men.  Hardy's  presence  and  company 
soon  shook  him  out  of  this  maudlin  nightmare  state,  and  he 
began  to  recover  as  soon  as  he  had  his  old  sheet-anchor  friend 
to  hold  on  to  and  consult  with.  Their  consultations  were 
'isld  chiefly  in  the  intervals  of  woodcraft,  in  wliich  they 
spent  most  of  the  hours  between  breakfast  and  dinner.  Hardy 
did  not  take  out  a  certificate,  and  wouldn't  slioot  without  one  j 
so,  as  i/he  best  autumn  exercise,  they  selected  a   tough  old 


1 


SECOND   YEAR.  387 

pollartl  elm,  infinitely  ugly,  with  knotted  and  tvvisted  roots, 
curiously  difficult  to  get  at  and  cut  through,  wliich  had  been 
loTig  marked  as  a  blot  by  Mr.  Brown,  and  condemned  to  be 
felled  as  soon  as  there  was  nothing  more  pressing  for  his  men 
to  do.  But  there  was  always  something  of  more  importance  ; 
so  that  the  cross-grained  old  tree  might  have  remained  until 
this  day,  had  not  Hardy  and  Tom  pitched  on  him  as  a  foemaii 
worthy  of  their  axes.  They  shovelled,  and  picked,  and  hewed 
away  with  great  energy.  The  woodman  who  visited  them 
occasionally,  and  who,  on  examining  their  first  efforts,  had 
remarked  that  the  severed  roots  looked  a  little  "as  tho'  the 
dogs  had  been  a  gnawin'  at  'em,"  began  to  hold  them  in 
respect,  and  to  tender  his  advice  with  some  defert^nce.  By 
the  time  the  tree  was  felled  and  shrouded,  Tom  was  in  a  con- 
valescent state. 

Their  occupation  had  naturally  led  to  discussions  on  the 
advantages  of  emigration,  the  delights  of  clearing  one's  own 
estate,  building  one's  own  house,  and  getting  away  from  con- 
ventional life  with  a  few  tried  friends.  Of  course  the  pic- 
tures which  were  painted  included  foregrounds  with  beautiful 
children  playing  about  the  clearing,  and  graceful  women, 
wives  of  the  happy  squatters,  flitting  in  and  out  of  the  log- 
houses  and  sheds,  clothed  and  occupied  after  the  manner  of 
our  ideal  grandmothers ;  with  the  health  and  strength  of 
Amazons,  the  refinement  ofliigh-bred  ladies,  and  wondrous 
skill  in  all  domestic  works,  confections,  and  contrivances. 
The  log-houses  would  also  contain  fascinating  select  libraries, 
continually  reinforced  from  home,  suffi)^ient  to  keep  all 
dwellers  in  the  happy  clearing  in  commui^ion  with  all  the 
highest  minds  of  their  own  and  former  generations.  Wondrous 
games  m  the  neighbouring  forest,  dear  old  home  customs 
established  and  taking  root  in  the  wilderness,  with  ultimate 
dainty  flower  gardens,  conservatories,  and  pianofortes — a  mil- 
lennium  on  a  small  scale,  with  universal  educatioin,  competence, 
prosperity,  and  equal  rights  I  Such  castle-building,  as  an 
accompaniment  to  the  hard  exercise  of  woodcraft,  worked 
wonders  for  Tom  in  the  next  week,  and  may  be  safely  recom- 
mended to  parties  in  like  evil  case  with  him. 

But  more  practical  discussions  were  not  neglected,  and  it 
was  agreed  that  they  should  make  a  day  at  Englebourn  to- 
gether before  their  return  to  Oxford,  Hardy  undertaking  to 
invade  the  Rectory  with  the  view  of  re-establishing  his  friend's 
character  there. 

Tom  wrote  a  letter  to  Katie  to  prepare  her  for  a  visit.  The 
day  after  the  ancient  elm  was  fairly  disposed  of  they  started 
early  for  Englebourn,  and  separated  at  the  entrance  to  the 


388  TOM   BHOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

village — Hardy  proceeding  to  the  Rectory  to  fulfil  his  mission, 
which  he  felt  to  be  rather  an  erabarrasslTig  one,  and  Tom  to 
look  after  the  constable,  or  whoever  else  could  give  him  in- 
formation about  Harry. 

He  arrived  at  the  "Red  Lion," their  appointed  trysting- place, 
before  Hardy,  and  spent  a  restless  half-hour  in  the  porch  and 
bar  waiting  for  his  return.  At  last  Hardy  came,  and  Tom 
hurried  him  into  the  inn's  best  room,  where  bread  and  cheeso 
and  ale  awaited  them,  and,  as  soon  as  the  hostess  could  be  gut 
out  of  the  room,  began  impatiently — 

"  Well  you  have  seen  her  1" 

"  Yes,  I  have  come  straight  here  from  the  Rectory." 

"And  is  it  all  right,  eh  ?     Had  she  got  m.y  letter?" 

"Yes,  she  had  had  your  letter." 

"  And  you  think  she  is  satisiied  1 " 

"  Satisfied  1    No,  you  can't  expect  her  to  be  satisfied." 

"  I  mean,  is  she  satisfied  that  it  isn't  so  bad  after  all  as  it 
looked  the  other  day?     AVhat  does  Katie  think  of  mel" 

"  1  think  she  is  still  very  fond  of  you,  but  that  she  has 
been  puzzled  and  outraged  by  this  discovery,  and  cannot  get 
over  it  all  at  once.'' 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  her  the  whole  story  from  beginning 
to  end  r' 

"  I  tried  to  do  so  as  well  as  T  could." 

"  Oil,  but  I  can  see  you  haven't  done  it.  She  doesn't  really 
understand  how  it  is." 

"  Perliaps  not ;  buo  you  must  lemember  it  is  an  awkward 
subject  to  be  talking  about  to  a  young  woman.  I  would  sooner 
stand  another  fellowship  examination  than  go  through  it 
again." 

"Thank  you,  old  fellow,"  said  Tom,  laying  his  hand  on 
Hardy's  shoulder ;  "  I  feel  that  I'm  unreasonable  and  im- 
patient ;  but  you  can  excuse  it ;  yoa  know  that  I  don't  mean 
it." 

"  Don't  say  another  word ;  I  only  wish  I  could  have  done 
more  for  you." 

"  But  what  do  you  suppose  Katie  thinks  of  me  ? " 

"  AVhy,  you  see,  it  sums  itself  up  in  this  :  she  sees  that 
you  have  been  making  serious  love  to  Patty,  and  have  turned 
the  poor  girl's  head,  more  or  less,  and  that  now  you  are  in  lovo 
with  somebody  else.  Why,  put  it  how  we  will,  we  can't  get 
out  of  that.  There  are  the  facts,  pure  nnd  simple,  and  she 
wouldn't  be  half  a  woman  if  she  didn't  resent  it." 

"But  it's  hard  lines,  too,  isn't  it.  old  fellow'?  No,  T  won't 
say  that  1  I  deserve  it  all,  and  much  worse.  But  you  think 
I  may  come  round  all  right  1" 


I 


SECOND    YEAR.  389 

"Yes,  all  in  good  time.  I  hope  lliere's  no  danger  in  any 
other  quarter  1 " 

"  Goodness  knows  !  There's  the  rub,  you  see.  She  will 
go  back  to  town  disgusted  with  lue.  I  sha'n't  see  lier  again, 
and  she  won't  hear  of  nie  for  I  don't  know  how  long ;  and 
she  will  be  meeting  heaps  of  men.  Has  Katie  been  over 
to  Barton  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  she  was  there  last  week,  just  before  they  left." 

"AVell,  what  happened  1" 

"  She  wouldn't  say  much ;  but  I  gathered  that  they  are 
very  ^velL" 

"  Oh,  yes,  bother  it.  Of  com'se,  they  are  very  well.  But 
didn't  she  talk  to  Katie  about  what  happened  last  week?" 

"  Of  course  she  did.      What  else  should  they  taUc  about  1" 

"  Ijut  you  don't  know  what  they  said  1 " 

"  No.  But  you  may  dejwnd  on  "it  that  IMiss  "Winter  will 
be  your  friend.  My  dear  fellow,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but 
time." 

"  Well,  T  suppose  not,"  said  Tom,  with  a  groan.  "  Do  you 
think  I  should  call  and  see  Katie?" 

"  No  ;   I  think  better  not." 

"  Well,  then,  we  may  as  well  get  back,"  said  Tom,  who  was 
not  sorry  for  his  friend's  decision.  So  they  jiaid  their  bill 
and  started  for  home,  taking  the  Hawk's  Lynch  on  the  way, 
that  Hardy  might  see  the  view. 

"And  what  did  you  find  out  about  young  Winburn?"  he 
said,  as  they  passed  down  the  street. 

"  Oil,  no  good,"  said  Tom ;  "he  was  turned  out,  as  I 
thought,  and  has  gone  to  live  with  an  old  woman  up  on  the 
heath  here,  who  is  no  better  than  she  should  be;  and  none 
of  the  farmers  will  employ  him." 

"  You  didn't  see  him,  I  sup])ose'?" 

"!N'o  ;  he  is  away  with  some  of  the  heath  people,  hawking 
Desoms  and  chairs  about  the  country.  They  make  them  M'hen 
there  is  no  harvest  work,  and  loaf  about  in  Oxfordshire  and 
Buckinghamshire,  and  other  counties,  selling  them." 

"  No  good  will  come  of  that  sort  of  life,  I'm  afraid," 

"No  ;  but  what  is  he  to  dol" 

"  I  called  at  the  lodge  as  I  came  away,  and  saw  Patty  and 
her  mother.  It's  all  right  in  that  quarter.  The  old  woman 
doesn't  seem  to  think  anything  of  it ;  and  Patty  is  a  good 
girl,  and  vnll  make  Harry  Winburn,  or  anybody  else,  a  ca])ita] 
wife.     Here  are  your  letters." 

"And  the  locket?" 

"  I  quite  forgot  it.  W]^j  didn't  you  remind  me  of  it  ?  You 
talked  of  nothing  but  the  letters  this  morning." 


390  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFOKD. 

"  I'm  glad  of  it.  It  can  do  no  harm  now,  ard  as  it  is  worth 
something,  I  should  have  been  aslianied  to  take  it  back.  I 
ho])e  she'll  put  Harry's  hair  in  it  soon.  Did  she  seem  to  mind 
giving  up  the  letters  1" 

"  ^"ot  very  much.  Ko,  you  are  lucky  there.  She  wiU  get 
over  it." 

"  But  you  told  her  that  I  am  her  friend  for  life,  and  that 
she  is  to  let  me  know  if  I  can  ever  do  anything  for  lier  V 

*'  Yes.  And  now  I  hope  this  is  the  last  job  of  the  kind  I 
shall  ever  have  to  do  for  you." 

"  But  what  bad  luck  it  has  been  1  If  I  had  only  seen  her 
before,  or  known  who  she  was,  nothing  of  all  this  would  have 
happened." 

To  which  Hardy  made  no  reply  ;  and  the  subject  was  not 
alluded  to  again  in  their  walk  home. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  they  returned  to  Oxford — Hardy 
to  begin  his  work  as  fellow  and  assistant-tutor  of  the  College, 
and  Tom  to  see  whether  he  could  not  make  a  better  hand  of 
his  second  year  than  he  had  of  his  first.  He  began  with 
a  much  better  chance  of  doing  so,  for  he  v/as  thoroughly 
humbled.  The  discovery  that  he  was  not  altogether  such  a 
h.'iro  as  he  had  fancied  himself,  had  dawned  upon  him  veiy 
distinctly  by  the  end  of  his  first  year  ;  and  the  events  of  the 
lung  vacation  had  confirmed  the  impression,  and  pretty  Avell 
taken  all  the  conceit  out  of  him  for  the  time.  The  impotency 
of  his  own  will,  even  when  he  was  bent  on  doing  the  right 
thing,  his  want  of  insight  and  foresight  in  whatever  matter 
he  took  in  hand,  the  unruliness  of  his  tempers  and  passions 
just  at  the  moments  when  it  behoved  him  to  have  them  most 
tlioroughly  in  hand  and  under  control,  were  a  set  of  dis- 
agreeable facts  which  had  been  driven  well  home  to  him.  The 
results,  being  even  such  as  we  have  seen,  he  did  not  much 
repine  at,  for  he  felt  he  had  deserved  them  ;  and  there  was  a 
sort  of  grim  satisfaction,  dreary  as  the  prospect  was,  in  facing 
them,  and  taking  his  punishment  like  a  man.  This  was  what 
he  had  felt  at  the  first  blush  on  the  Ha,wk's  Lynch ;  and,  as 
ho  thought  over  matters  again  by  his  fire,  with  his  oak  sported, 
on  the  first  evening  of  term,  he  was  still  in  the  same  mind 
This  was  clearly  what  he  had  to  do  now.  How  to  do  it,  was 
the  only  question. 

At  first  ho  was  inclined  to  try  to  set  himself  right  with  tho 
Porters  and  the  Englebourn  circle,  by  writing  further  ex- 
planations and  confessions  to  Katie.  But,  on  trying  his  hand 
at  a  letter,  he  found  that  he  could  not  trust  himself.  The 
temptation  of  putting  everything  in  the  best  point  of  view 
for  himself  was  too  great ;  so  ho  gave  up  the  attempt,  and 


I 


SECOND   YEAR.  iJ91 

merely  wrote  a  few  liiicp  to  David,  to  remind  liim  that  he  was 
always  ready  and  anxious  to  do  all  lie  could  for  his  friend, 
]Iarry  Winhurn,  and  to  beg  that  he  might  have  news  of  any- 
tliing  which  happened  to  him,  and  liow  he  was  getting  on. 
lie  did  not  allude  to  what  had  lately  happened,  for  he  did  not 
know  whether  tlie  facts  had  bec^ome  known,  and  v/as  in  no 
hurry  to  open  the  subject  liimsclf 

Having  finished  his  hotter,  he  turned  again  to  his  medita- 
tions over  tlie  fire,  and,  considering  that  lie  had  some  little 
right  to  reward  resolution,  took  off  tlie  safety  valve,  and 
allowed  the  thoughts  to  bubble  up  freely  which  were  always 
untlerlj'ing  all  others  that  passed  through  his  brain,  and 
making  constant  low,  delicious,  liut  just  now  somewhat  melan- 
choly music,  in  his  liead  and  heart.  He  gave  himself  up 
to  thinking  of  Mary,  and  their  walk  in  the  wood,  and  the 
sprained  ankle,  and  all  the  sayings  and  doings  of  that  eventful 
autumn  day.  And  then  he  opened  liis  desk,  and  examined 
certain  treasures  therein  concealed,  including  a  witliered  rose- 
bud, a  sjtrig  of  heatlier,  a  cut  Ijoot-lace,  and  a  scrap  or  two 
of  v\Titing.  Having  gone  through  some  extravagant  forms  of 
Worship,  not  necessary  to  be  specified,  he  put  them  away. 
Would  it  ever  all  come  right? 

He  made  his  solitary  tea,  and  sat  down  again  to  consider 
the  jDoint.  But  the  point  would  not  be  considered  alone.  He 
began  to  feel  more  strongly  wliat  he  had  had  several  hints  of 
already,  that  there  was  a  curiously  close  connexion  between 
his  own  love  story  and  that  of  Harry  Winburn  and  Patty — 
that  he  couldn't  separate  them,  even  in  his  thoughts.  Old 
Simon's  tumble,  which  had  recalled  his  daughter  from  Oxford 
at  so  critical  a  moment  for  him  ;  Mary's  visit  1o  linglebourn 
at  this  very  time  ;  the  curious  yet  natural  series  of  little 
accidents  nhich  had  kept  him  in  ignorance  of  Patty's  identity 
until  the  final  catastrophe — then,  again,  the  way  in  which 
Harry  Wintjurn  and  his  mother  liad  come  .across  him  on  the 
very  day  of  his  leaWng  Barton  ;  tlie  fellowship  of  a  common 
mourning  which  had  seemed  to  bind  them  together  so  closely  ; 
and  this  last  discovery,  which  he  could  not  help  fearing  must 
turn  Harry  into  a  bitter  enemy,  when  he  heard  the  truth,  as  lie 
must,  sooner  or  later — as  all  these  things  passed  before  him, 
he  gave  in  to  a  sort  of  superstitious  feeling  that  his  own  fate 
hung,  in  some  way  or  another,  upon  that  of  Harry  Winburn. 
If  he  helj>ed  on  his  sui*^^,  he  was  helping  on  his  own;  but 
whether  he  helped  on  his  o\\'n  or  not,  was,  after  all,  not  that 
which  was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts.  He  was  much  changed 
in  this  respect  since  he  last  sat  in  those  room'',  just  after  his 
tirat  days  with  her.     Since  then  an  angel  had  met  him,  and 


b92  TOM   LltOWN    AT    OXFOKD. 

had  "touched  the  chord  of  self,  which,  trembling,"  was  passiiig 
"  iu  music  out  of  sight." 

The  thought  of  Hurry  and  his  trials  enabled  him  to  indulge 
iu  some  good  honest  indignation,  for  which  there  was  no 
room  ill  his  own  case.  That  the  prospects  in  life  of  such  a 
man  should  be  in  the  power,  to  a  great  extent,  of  such  peojile 
as  Squire  Vv^uiiey  and  farmer  Tester ;  that,  because  he  ha]>- 
pened  to  be  poor,  he  should  be  turned  out  of  the  cottage  where 
his  family  had  lived  for  a  hundred  years,  at  a  week's  notice, 
liirough  the  caprice  of  a  drunken  gambler;  that,  because  he 
had  stood  wp  for  his  rights,  and  had  thereby  offended  the 
■\\  urst  farmer  in  the  parish,  he  should  be  a  marked  man,  and 
unable  to  get  work — these  things  appeared  so  monstrous  to 
Tom,  and  made  hun  so  angiy,  that  he  was  obliged  to  get  up 
and  stamp  about  the  room.  And  from  the  particular  case  he 
very  soon  got  to  generalizations. 

t^)uestions  which  had  befoie  now  puzzled  him  gained  a  new 
signilicance  every  minute,  and  became  real  to  him.  AVhy  a 
few  men  slioidd  be  ricii,  and  all  the  I'est  i)Oor  ;  above  all,  why 
he  should  be  one  of  the  few  1  Why  the  mere  possession  of 
])roperty  should  give  a  man  power  over  all  his  neighbours  ? 
A\'hy  poor  men  who  were  ready  and  willing  to  work  should 
only  be  allowed  to  work  as  a  sort  of  favour,  and  should  after 
all  get  the  merest  tithe  of  what  theu'  labour  produced,  and  be 
tossed  aside  as  soon  as  theii'  work  was  done,  or  no  longer 
required  ]  These,  and  other  such  problems,  rose  up  before 
him,  crude  and  sharp,  aski)ig  to  be  solved.  Feeling  himself 
quite  unable  to  giv".  any  but  one  answer  to  them — viz.  that 
he  was  getting  out  of  his  depth,  and  that  the  whole  busincvSS 
was  in  a  muddle — he  had  recourse  to  his  old  method  when 
in  difliculties,  and  putting  on  his  cap,  started  ofl'  to  Hardy's 
looms  to  talk  the  matter  over,  and  see  whether  he  could  not 
got  some  light  on  it  from  that  quarter. 

He  returned  in  an  hour  or  so,  somewhat  less  troubled  in  his 
mind,  inasmuch  as  he  had  found  his  friend  in  pretty  much 
tlie  same  state  of  mind  on  such  topics  as  liimself  But  one 
etc])  he  had  gained.  Under  his  arm  he  carried  certain  books 
from  Hardy's  scanty  library,  the  }>erusal  of  which  he  hoped, 
at  least,  might  enable  him  sooner  or  later  to  feel  that  he  had 
got  on  to  some  sort  of  firm  ground.  At  any  rate,  Haidy  had 
advised  him  to  read  them ;  so,  without  more  ado,  he  drew 
his  chair  to  the  table  and  began  to  look  into  them. 

This  gliiu])se  of  the  manner  in  which  Tom  spent  the  fiist 
evening  of  his  second  year  at  Oxford,  v.ill  enable  intelligent 
leaders  to  understand  why,  though  he  took  to  reading  far 
more  kindly  and  earnestly  than  he  had  ever  done  before,  he 


SECOND   YEAR.  393 

Ttr<x\e  no  great  advance  in  the  proper  studios  of  the  place. 
]S'o:  that  he  Avholly  neglected  these,  for  Hardy  kept  him 
pretty  well  up  to  the  collar,  and  he  passed  his  little-go  credit- 
ably, and  was  fairly  placed  at  the  college  examinations.  Li 
some  of  the  books  which  he  had  to  get  U])  for  lectures  he  was 
really  interested.  The  politics  of  Athens,  the  struggle  between 
the  Roman  plebs  and  jiatricians,  IMuns  Sacer  and  the  Agrarian 
Laws — these  began  to  have  a  new  meaning  to  him,  but  chiefly 
because  they  bore  more  or  less  on  the  great  Harry  Winburn 
problem  ;  Avhich  problem,  indeed,  for  him  had  now  fairly 
s\velled  into  the  condition-of-England  problem,  and  was 
becoming  every  day  more  and  more  urgent  and  importunate, 
shaking  many  old  beliefs,  and  leading  him  whither  he  knew 
not. 

This  very  matter  of  leading  was  a  sore  trial  to  him.  The 
further  he  got  on  his  new  road  the  more  he  felt  the  want  of 
guidance — the  guidance  of  some  man ;  for  that  of  books  he 
soon  found  to  be  bewildering.  His  college  tutor,  Avhom  lie 
consulted,  only  deprecated  the  waste  of  time  ;  but  on  finding  it 
impossible  to  dissuade  him,  at  last  recommended  the  economic 
works  of  that  day  as  the  proper  well-sp lings  of  truth  on  such 
matters.  To  them  Tom  accordingly  vrent,  and  read  with  the 
docility  and  faith  of  youth,  bent  on  learning,  and  feeling 
itself  in  the  presence  of  men  who  had,  oj'  assumed,  the  right 
of  speaking  with  authority. 

Ami  they  spoke  to  him  with  authority,  and  he  read  on, 
believing  nuich  and  hoping  more ;  but  somehow  tliey  did  not 
really  satisfy  him,  though  they  silenced  him  for  the  time. 
It  was  not  the  fault  of  the  books,  most  of  which  laid  down 
clearly  enough,  that  what  they  professed  to  teach  was  the 
science  of  man's  material  interests,  and  the  laws  of  the  making 
and  employment  of  capital.  But  this  escaped  him  in  his 
eagerness,  and  he  wandered  up  and  down  their  })ages  in  search 
of  quite  another  science,  and  of  laws  with  which  they  did  not 
meddle.  Xevertheless,  here  and  there  they  seemed  to  toucn 
upon  what  he  was  in  search  of.  He  was  much  fascinated, 
for  instance,  by  the  doctrine  of  "  the  greatest  happiness  of 
the  greatest  number,"  and  for  its  sake  swallowed  for  a  time, 
though  not  without  wry  faces,  the  dogmas,  that  self-interest 
is  the  true  pivot  of  all  social  action,  that  ])opulation  has  a 
perpetual  tendency  to  outstrip  the  means  of  living,  and  tliat 
to  establish  a  preventive  check  on  population  is  the  duty  of 
all  good  citizens.  And  so  he  lived  on  for  some  time  in  a 
dreary  uncomfortable  state,  fearing  for  the  future  of  his 
country,  and  with  little  hope  about  his  own.  But,  when  he 
came  to  take  stock  of  his  newiy-acquu-ed  knowledge,  to  weigh 


304  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

.it  aiiu  measure  it,  and  found  it  to  consist  of  a  sort  of  hazy 
conviction  that  society  would  be  all  right  and  ready  for  the 
millennium,  when  every  man  could  do  what  he  liked,  and 
nobody  could  interfere  with  him,  and  there  should  be  a  law 
against  marriage,  the  result  was  more  than  he  could  stand, 
lie  roused  himself,  and  shook  himself,  and  began  to  think, 
"  Well,  these  my  present  teachers  are  very  clever  men,  and 
well-meaning  men,  too.  I  see  all  that;  but,  if  their  teaching 
is  only  to  land  me  here,  why  it  was  scarcely  worth  while 
going  tlirough  so  much  to  get  so  little." 

Casting  about  still  for  guidance.  Grey  occurred  to  him. 
Grey  was  in  residence  as  a  bachelor,  attending  divinitj^  lectures, 
and  preparing  for  ordination.  He  was  still  working  hard  at 
the  niglit-school,  and  'J'om  hod  been  there  once  or  twice  to 
help  him  when  the  curate  was  away.  In  short,  he  was  in 
very  good  books  with  Grey,  who  had  got  the  bettor  of  his 
shyness  with  him.  He  saw  that  Tom  was  changed  and 
sobered,  and  in  his  heart  hoped  some  day  to  wean  him  from 
the  pursuits  of  the  body,  to  Avhich  he  was  still  fearfully  ad- 
dicted, and  to  bring  him  into  the  fold.  This  hope  was  not 
altogether  unfounded  ;  for,  notwithstanding  the  strong  bias 
against  them  which  Tom  had  brought  with  him  from  school, 
he  was  now  at  times  much  attracted  by  many  of  the  High 
Church  doctrines,  and  the  men  who  professed  them.  Such 
men  as  Grey  he  saw  did  really  believe  something,  and  were 
in  earnest  about  carrying  their  beliefs  into  action.  The  party 
might  and  did  comprise  many  others  of  the  weakest  sort,  who 
believed  and  were  in  earnest  about  nothing,  but  who  liked  to 
he  peculiar.  Nevertheless,  while  he  saw  it  laying  hold  of 
many  of  the  best  men  of  his  time,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  he  was  drawn  toAvards  it.  Some  help  might  lie  in  these 
men  if  he  could  only  get  at  it ! 

So  he  propounded  his  doubts  and  studies,  and  their  resvilis, 
to  Grey.  Jkit  it  was  a  failure.  Grey  felt  no  difiiculty,  or 
very  little,  in  the  whole  matter ;  but  Tom  found  that  it  was 
because  he  believed  the  world  to  belong  to  the  devil.  "Laisses 
/aire,"  "buynig  cheaj)  and  selling  dear,"  Grey  held  might  be 
good  enough  laws  for  the  woi'ld — very  probably  wci'e.  The 
laws  of  the  Church  were  "  self-sacrifice,"  and  "  bearing  one 
another's  burthens ;  "  her  children  should  come  out  from  the 
I'egions  where  the  world's  laws  were  acknowledged. 

Tom  listened,  was  dazzled  at  first,  and  thought  he  was 
getting  on  the  right  track.  But  very  soon  he  found  that 
Grey's  sjiecific  was  not  of  the  least  use  to  him.  It  was  no 
good  to  tell  him  of  the  rules  of  a  society  to  which  he  felt  that 
he  neither  belonged,  nor  wished  to  belong,  for  cleai'ly  it  could 


SECOND   YEAR.  395 

not  be  the  Cliurcli  of  England.  He  was  an  outsider  !  Grey 
would  probably  admit  it  to  be  so,  if  he  asked  him  !  He  had 
no  longing  to  be  anj'thing  else,  if  the  Church  meant  an  ex- 
clusive body,  which  tool^  no  care  of  any  but  its  own  peo])le, 
and  had  nothing  to  say  to  the  great  world  in  which  he  and 
most  people  had  to  live,  and  buying  and  selling,  and  biring 
and  working,  had  to  go  on.  The  close  corporation  might  have 
very  good  laws,  but  they  were  nothing  to  him.  What  he 
wanted  to  know  about  was  the  law  which  this  great  world — 
the  devil's  world,  as  Grey  called  it — was  ruled  by,  or  rather 
ought  to  be  ruled  by.  Perhaps,  after  all,  Bentham  and  the 
others,  whose  books  he  had  been  reading,  might  be  right ! 
At  any  rate,  it  was  clear  that  they  had  in  their  thoughts  the 
same  world  that  he  had — the  world  which  included  himself 
and  Harry  Winburn,  and  all  labourers,  and  squires,  and 
farmers.  So  he  turned  to  them  again,  not  hopefidly,  but 
more  inclined  to  listen  to  them  than  he  had  been  before  he 
had  spoken  to  Grey. 

Hardy  was  so  fully  occupied  with  college  lectures  and 
private  pupils,  that  Tom  had  scruples  about  taking  up  much 
of  his  spare  time  in  the  evenings.  Nevertlieless,  as  Grej'  had 
broken  do^\^l,  and  there  was  nobody  else  on  whose  judgment 
he  could  rely  who  would  listen  to  him,  whenever  he  had  a 
cliance  he  wouid  propound  some  of  his  puzzles  to  his  old 
friend.  In  sojne  respects  he  got  little  help,  for  Hardy  was 
almost  as  much  at  sea  as  he  himself  on  such  subjects  as 
"value,"  and  "wages,"  and  the  "laws  of  supply  and  demand." 
But  there  was  an  indomitable  belief  in  him  that  all  men's 
intercourse  with  one  another,  and  not  merely  that  of  Church- 
men, must  be  founded  on  the  principle  of  "doing  as  they 
would  be  done  by,"  and  not  on  "  buying  cheap  and  selling 
dear,"  and  that  these  never  would  or  could  be  reconciled  with 
one  another,  or  mean  the  same  thing,  twist  them  how  you 
would.  This  faith  of  his  friend's  comforted  Tom  greatly,  and 
he  was  never  tired  of  bringing  it  out ;  but  at  times  he  had 
his  doubts  whether  Grey  might  not  be  right — whether,  after 
all,  that  and  the  like  maxims  and  principles  were  meant  to  be 
the  laws  of  the  kingdoms  of  this  world.  He  Avanted  some 
corroborative  evidence  on  the  subject  from  an  impartial  and 
competent  witness,  and  at  last  hit  upon  what  he  wanterl. 
For,  one  evening,  on  entering  Hardy's  rooms,  he  found  him 
on  the  last  pages  of  a  book,  which  he  shut  with  an  air  of 
triumph  on  recognismg  his  visitor.  Taking  it  up,  he  thrust 
it  into  Tom's  hands,  and  slapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  said, 
"  There,  my  boy,  that's  what  we  want,  or  pretty  near  it  at  any 
rate.     Now,  don't  say  a  word,  but  go  back  to  your  rooms, 


3'J6  TOM    BUOWN    AT   OXFORD. 

aiul  swallow  it  \vliole  and  digest  it,  and  then  come  back  and 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  it. 

"  But  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  I  can't  talk.  I  have  s])ent  the  better  jiart  of  two  days 
ove]'  that  book,  and  have  no  end  of  papers  to  look  over. 
There ;  get  back  to  your  rooms,  and  do  what  1  tell  you,  or 
sit  down  here  and  hold  your  tongue." 

So  Tom  sat  down  and  held  his  tongue,  and  was  soon  deep 
in  Carlyle's  "  Past  and  l^resent."  How  he  did  revel  in  it— - 
in  the  humour,  the  power,  the  pathos,  but,  above  all,  in  the 
root  and  branch  dejiunciations  of  many  of  the  doctrines  in 
wbich  he  had  been  so  lately  voluntarily  and  wearily  chaining 
himself !  The  chains  went  suaj)2)ing  ofl'  one  after  another, 
and,  in  his  exultation,  he  kept  s})outing  out  passage  after 
passage  in  a  song  of  trimnph,  "  Eidightened  egoism  never  so 
luminous  is  not  the  rule  by  which  man's  life  can  be  led — 
laissez-faire,  supply  and  demand,  cash  payment  for  the  sole 
nexus,  and  so  forth,  were  not,  are  not,  and  never  will  be, 
a  i)ractical  law  of  union  for  a  society  of  men,"  &c.  &c.,  until 
Hardy  fairly  got  up  and  turned  him  out,  and  he  retired  with 
his  new-found  treo.sure  to  his  own  rooms. 

He  had  scarcely  ever  iai  his  life  been  so  moved  by  a  book 
before.  He  laughed  over  it,  and  cried  over  it,  and  began 
half  a  dozen  letters  to  the  author  to  tliank  him,  which  he 
fortunately  tore  up.  He  almost  forgot  Mary  for  several  houi'S 
during  his  first  enthusiasm.  He  had  no  notion  how  he  had 
been  mastered  and  oppressed  before.  He  felt  as  the  crew  of 
a  small  iishing-smack,  wlio  are  being  towed  awaj'  by  an 
enemy's  cruiser,  might  feel  on  seeing  a  frigate  with  the  Union 
Jack  llyuig,  bearing  down  and  opening  fire  on  their  captor ; 
or  as  a  small  boy  at  school,  wlio  is  being  fagged  against  rules 
by  the  right  of  the  strongest,  feels  wlien  he  sees  his  big 
brotlier  coming  round  the  corner.  The  help  which  he  had 
found  was  just  what  he  wanted.  There  was  no  narrowing  of 
the  ground  here — no  appeal  to  men  as  members  of  any 
exclusive  body  whatever  to  sejtarate  themselves  and  come  out 
of  the  devil's  Avorld  ;  but  to  men  as  men,  to  every  man  as  a 
man — to  the  Aveakest  and  meanest,  as  well  as  to  the  strongest 
and  most  noble — telling  them  tliat  the  world  is  God's  world, 
that  every  one  of  them  has  a  work  in  it,  and  bidding  them 
Und  their  work  and  set  about  it. 

The  strong  tinge  of  sadness  which  ran  through  the  whole 
book,  and  its  unsparing  denunciations  of  the  established 
order  of  things,  suited  his  own  unsettled  and  restless  frame 
of  mind.  So  he  gave  himself  up  to  liis  new  bondage,  and 
rejoiced  in  it,  as  though  he  had  found  at  last  what  he  wa? 


( 


SECOND    YEAR.  397 

seeking  for ;  and,  by  the  time  that  long  vacation  came  round 
again,  to  which  we  are  compelled  to  hurry  him,  he  was  filled 
full  of  a  set  of  contradictory  notions  and  beliefs,  which  were 
destined  to  astonish  and  perplex  the  mind  of  that  worthy 
J.  P.  for  the  county  of  Berks,  Brown  the  elder,  whatever  other 
effect  they  might  have  on  society  at  large. 

Eeaders  must  not  suppose,  however,  that  our  hero  had 
given  up  his  old  pursuits  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  continued  to 
boat,  and  cricket,  and  spar,  with  as  much  vigour  as  ever. 
His  perplexities  only  made  him  a  little  more  silent  at  his 
pastimes  than  he  used  to  be.  But,  as  we  liave  already  seen 
him  thus  employed,  and  know  the  ways  of  the  animal  in 
such  matters,  it  is  needless  to  repeat.  What  we  want  to  do 
is  to  follow  him  into  new  fields  of  thought  and  action,  and 
mark,  if  it  may  be,  how  he  develops,  and  gets  himself 
educated  in  one  way  and  another ;  and  this  plunge  into  the 
gi'eat  sea  of  social,  political,  and  economical  questions  is  the 
noticeable  fact  (so  far  as  any  is  noticeable)  of  his  second 
year's  residence. 

During  the  year  he  had  only  very  meagre  accounts  of 
matters  at  Englebourn.  Katie,  indeed,  had  come  round 
sufficiently  to  write  to  him ;  but  she  scaicely  alluded  to  her 
cousin.  He  only  knew  that  INIary  had  come  out  in  London, 
and  was  much  admired ;  and  that  the  Porters  had  not  takea 
Barton  again,  but  w^;re  going  abroad  for  the  autumn  and 
winter.  The  accounts  of  Harry  were  bad  ;  he  was  still  living 
at  Daddy  Collins's,  nobody  knew  how,  and  working  gang- 
work  occasionally  with  the  outlaws  of  the  heath. 

The  only  fact  of  importance  in  the' neighbourhood  had 
been  the  death  of  Squire  Wurley,  which  happened  suddenly 
in  the  spring.  A  distant  cousin  had  succeeded  him,  a  young 
man  of  Tom's  own  age. 

He  was  also  in  residence  at  Oxford,  and  Tom  knpw  hrr^. 
They  were  not  very  congenial  ;  sc  he  was  much  astonished 
when  young  Wurley,  on  his  return  to  College,  after  his  rela- 
tive's funeral,  rather  sought  him  out,  and  seemed  to  wish 
to  know  more  of  him.  The  end  of  it  was  an  invitation  to 
Tom  to  come  to  the  Grange,  and  spend  a  week  or  so  at  the 
beginning  of  the  long  vacation.  There  was  to  be  a  party  of 
Oxford  men,  and  nobody  else  there ;  and  they  meant  to 
enjoy  themselves  thoroughly,  Wui'ley  said. 

Tom  felt  much  embarrassed  how  to  act,  and,  after  some 
hesitation,  told  his  inviter  of  his  last  visit  to  the  mansion  in 
question,  thinking  that  a  knowledge  of  the  circumstances 
might  change  his  mincL  But  he  found  that  young  Wurley 
knew  the  facts  already  ;  and,  in  fact,  he  couldn't  help  sus- 


398  TOM   BllOWN   AT    OXFOllD. 

pecting  that  his  quarrel  with  the  late  owner  had  sometliing 
to  say  to  his  present  invitation.  However,  it  did  not  Ue  in 
his  mouth  to  be  curious  on  the  subject ;  and  so  he  accepted 
the  invitation  gladly,  much  delighted  at  the  notion  of  begin- 
ning his  vacation  so  near  Englebourn,  and  having  the  run  of 
the  Grange  fishing,  which  was  justly  celebrated. 


CHAPTEE  XXXVI. 

THE    RIVER    SIDE. 

So,  from  Tlenley,  Tom  went  home  just  to  see  his  father  and 
mother,  and  pick  up  his  fishing-gear,  and  then  started  for 
the  Grange.  On  his  road  thither,  he  more  than  once  almost 
made  up  his  mind  to  go  round  by  Englebourn,  get  his  first 
interview  with  Katie  over,  and  find  out  how  the  world  was 
really  going  with  Harry  and  his  sweetheart,  of  whom  he  had 
had  such  meagre  intelligence  of  late.  But,  for  some  reason 
or  another,  when  it  came  to  taking  the  turn  to  Englebourn, 
he  passed  it  by,  and,  contenting  himself  for  the  time  with  a 
distant  view  of  the  village  and  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  drove 
straight  to  the  Grange. 

He  had  not  expected  to  feel  Tery  comfortable  at  first  in  the 
house  which  he  had  left  the  previous  autumn  in  so  strange  a 
manner,  and  he  was  not  disappomted.  The  rooms  reminded 
him  unpleasantly  of  his  passage  of  arms  with  the  late  master, 
and  the  grave  and  portly  butler  was  somewhat  embarrassed 
in  his  reception  of  him  ;  while  the  footman,  who  carried  off 
his  portmanteau,  did  it  with  a  grin  which  put  him  out.  The 
set  of  men  whom  he  foiind  there  were  not  of  his  sort.  They 
were  young  Londoners,  and  he  a  thorough  countryman.  But 
the  sight  of  the  stream,  by  which  he  took  a  hasty  stroll 
before  dinner,  made  up  for  everything,  and  idled  him  with 
pleasurable  anticipations.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  a 
sweeter  bit  of  water. 

The  dinner  to  which  the  party  of  young  gentlemen  sat 
down  was  most  undeniable.  The  host  talked  a  httle  too 
much,  perhaps,  under  all  the  circumstances,  of  my  wine, 
■my  plate,  my  mutton,  &c.,  provoking  the  thought  of  how 
long  they  had  been  his.  But  he  was  bent  on  hospitality 
after  his  fashion,  and  his  guests  were  not  disposed  to  criticise 
much. 

The  old  butler  did  not  condescend  to  wait,  but  brought  in 
a  magnum  of  claret  alter  dinner,  carefully  nursing  it  as  if  it 
were  a  baby,  and  placing  it  patronizingly  before  his  young 


THE    RIVER   SIDE.  3D9 

master.  Before  tlioy  adjourned  to  the  billiard-room  they  had 
disposed  of  several  of  the  same ;  but  the  followers  were 
brought  in  by  a  footman,  the  butler  being  employed  in  dis- 
cussing a  bottle  of  an  older  vintage  with  the  steward  in  the 
still-room.  Then  came  pool,  pool,  pool,  soda-water  and  brandy, 
and  cigars,  into  the  short  hours  ;  but  Pom  stole  away  early, 
having  an  eye  to  his  morning's  fishing,  and  not  feeling  much 
at  home  with  his  companions. 

He  was  out  soon  after  sunrise  the  next  morning.  He 
never  wanted  to  be  called  when  there  was  a  trout-stream 
within  reach  ;  and  his  hshing  instinct  told  him  that,  in  these 
sultry  dog-days,  there  would  be  little  chance  of  sport  when 
the  sun  was  well  up.  So  he  let  himself  gently  out  of  tlie 
hall  door — ptaused  a  mc)ment  on  the  steps  to  fill  his  chest 
with  the  fresh  morning  air,  as  he  glanced  at  the  weathercock 
over  the  stables — and  then  set  to  work  to  put  his  tackle 
together  on  the  lawn,  humming  a  tune  to  himself  as  he 
selected  an  insiiiuatiUg  red  hackle  and  alder-fly  from  his 
well-worn  book,  and  tied  them  on  to  his  cast.  Then  he  slung 
his  creel  over  his  shoulder,  picked  up  his  rod,  and  started  for 
the  water. 

As  he  passed  the  gates  of  the  stable-yard,  the  keeper  camo 
out — a  sturdy  bullet-headed  fellow,  in.  a  velveteen  coat,  and 
cord  breeches  and  gaiters — and  touclied  his  hat.  Tom  re- 
turned  the  salute,  and  wished  him  good  morning.  ' 

"  Mornin',  sir  ;  you  be  about  early." 

"  Yes ;  I  reckon  it's  the  best  time  for  sport  at  the  end 
of  June." 

"  'Tis  so,  sir.      Shall  I  fetcli  a  net,  and  come  along  ! " 

"  1^0,  thank  you,  I'll  manage  the  ladle  myself.  But  which 
do  you  call  the  best  water  ]  " 

"  They  be  both  middling  good.  There  ain't  much  odds 
atwixt  'em.  But  I  sees  most  fish  movin'  o'  mornins  in  the 
deep  water  down  below." 

"  I  don't  know;  the  night  was  too  hot,"  said  Tom,  who 
had  examined  the  water  the  day  before,  and  made  up  his 
mind  where  he  was  going.  "  I'm  for  deep  water  on  c<jld 
days  ;  I  shall  begin  with  the  stickles  up  above.  There  s  a 
good  head  of  water  on,  I  suppose  1 " 

"  Plenty  down  this  last  week,  sir  ] " 

"  Come  along,  then  :  we'U  walk  together,  if  you're  going 
that  way."  So  Tom  stepped  olf,  brushing  through  the  steam- 
ing long  gras.s,  gemmed  with  v/ild  flowers,  followed  by  the 
keeper;  and,  as  the  grasshoppers  bounded  chu'ruping  out  of 
his  way,  and  the  insect  life  hummed  and  nnumured,  and  the 
lark  rose  and  sang  above  his  head,  he  felt  happier  than  he 


400  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

had  done  for  many  a  long  month.  So  his  lieart  opened 
towards  his  companion,  who  kept  a  little  behind  him. 

"  What  size  do  you  take  'era  out,  keeper  ? " 

"  Anything  over  nine  inches,  sir.  But  there's  a  smartish 
few  fish  of  three  pounds,  for  them  as  can  catch  'era." 

"  Well,  that's  good  ;  but  they  ain't  easy  caught,  eh.1 " 

"  I  don't  rightly  know,  sir ;  hut  there's  gents  comes  as 
stands  close  by  the  water,  and  flogs  down  stream  Avith  the 
sun  in  their  backs,  and  uses  all  manner  o'  vlies,  wi'  long 
names  ;  and  then  thay  gwoes  away,  and  says,  'tain't  no  use 
Hying  here,  'cos  there's  so  much  cadis  bait  and  that  like." 

"  Ah,  very  likely,"  said  Tom.  witli  a  chuckle. 

"  The  chaps  as  catches  the  big  fishes,  sir,"  went  on  the 
keeper,  getting  confidential,  "  is  thay  cussed  niglit-line 
poachers.  There's  one  o'  thay  as  has  come  here  this  last 
sjjring-tide — the  artfullest  chap  as  ever  I  come  across,  and 
down  to  every  move  on  the  board.  lie  don't  use  no  shove- 
nets,  nor  such-like  tackle,  not  he  ;  I  s'pose  he  don't  call  that 
sport.  Besides,  I  got  master  to  stake  the  whole  water,  and 
set  old  knives  and  razors  about  in  the  holes,  so  that  don't 
answer  ;  and  this  joker  all'us  goes  alone — which,  in  coiirso, 
he  couldn't  do  with  nets,  ^ow,  I  knows  within  five  or  six 
yards  where  that  chap  sets  his  lines,  and  I  finds  'em,  now 
and  again,  set  the  artfullest  you  ever  sc".  But  'twould  take 
a  man's  life  to  look  arter  liira,  and  L  knows  he  gets,  maybe,  a 
dozen  big  fish  a  week,  do  all  as  I  knows." 

"  How  is  it  you  can't  catch  hini,  keeper  ?  "  said  Tom,  much 
amused. 

"Why,  you  see,  sir,  ho  don't  come  at  any  hours.  Drat 
un  !"  said  the  keeper,  getting  hot ;  "blessed  if  I  don't  think 
he  sometimes  comes  down  among  the  haymakers  and  folk  at 
noon,  and  up  lines  and  off,  while  thay  chaps  does  nothing  but 
snigger  at  un — all  I  knows  is,  as  I've  watched  till  midnight, 
and  then  on  again  at  dawn  for'n,  and  no  good  come  on  it  but 
once." 

"  How  was  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  one  mornin',  sir,  about  last  Lady-day,  I  comes  quite 
quiet  up  stream  about  dawn.  When  I  get's  to  farmer  Giles's 
piece  (that  little  rough  bit,  sir,  as  you  sees  t'other  side  the 
stream,  two  fields  from  our  outside  bounds),  I  sees  un  a 
stooping  down  and  hauling  in's  line.  'Now's  your  time, 
BiLly,'  says  I,  and  up  the  hedge  I  cuts,  hotfoot,  to  get  betwixt 
ho  and  our  bounds.  Wether  he  seen  rae  or  not,  I  can't 
mind  ;  leastways,  when  I  up's  head  t'other  side  the  hedge;, 
vorrights  where  I  seen  him  last,  there  was  he  a-trotting  up 
stream  quite  cool,  a-pocketing  a  two-pounder.     Then  he  sees 


THE    RIVER    SIDE,  401 

mo,  and  a^vay  vra  trees  pirlo  by  side  for  the  bounds — he  tliis 
side  the  hedge  and  I  t'other ;  he  takin'  the  fences  like  our 
old  greyhonnd-bitch,  Clara.  We  takes  tlie  last  fence  on  to 
that  fuzzy  field  as  you  sees  there,  sir  (parson's  glebe,  and  out 
of  our  liberty),  neck  and  neck,  and  I  turns  short  to  the  left, 
'cos  there  wam't  no  fence  now  betwixt  he  and  I.  Well, 
I  thought  he'd  a  dodged  on  about  the  fuz.  I^ot  he  ;  he 
slouches  his  hat  over's  eyes,  and  stands  quite  cool  by  fust  fuz 
bush  —  I  minded  then  as  we  M^as  out  o'  our  beat.  Hows'ever, 
my  blood  was  up  ;  so  I  at's  him  then  and  there,  no  words 
lost,  and  fetches  a  crack  at's  head  wi'  my  stick,  lie  fends 
v.-i'  his'n  ;  and  then,  as  T  rushes  in  to  collar'n,  dash'd  if  'e 
didn't  meet  I  full,  and  catch  I  by  the  thigh  and  collar,  and 
send  I  slap  over's  head  into  a  fuz  bush.  Then  he  chuckles 
fit  to  bust  hisself,  and  cuts  his  stick,  Avhile  I  creeps  out  full 
o'  prickles,  and  wi'  my  breeches  tore  shameful.  Dang  un  ! " 
cried  the  keeper,  while  Tom  roared,  "he's  a  lissum  wosbird, 
that  I  'ool  say,  but  I'll  be  up  sides  wi'  he  next  time  I  sees 
un.  Whorson  fool  as  I  was,  not  to  stop  and  look  at  'n  and 
speak  to  un  !  Then  I  should  ha'  know"d'n  again  ;  and  now 
he  med  be  our  parish  clerk  for  all  as  I  knows." 

"  And  you've  never  met  him  since  ?  " 

"  Never  sot  eye  on  un,  sir,  arly  or  late — wishes  T  had." 

"  Well,  keeper,  here's  half-a-crown  to  go  towards  mending 
the  hole  in  your  breeches,  and  better  luck  at  the  return  match. 
T  shall  begin  fishing  here." 

"  Thank "ee,  sir.  You  keep  your  cast  pretty  nigli  that  there 
off  bank,  and  you  med  have  a  rare  good  un  ther'.  I  seen  a 
tish  suck  there  just  now  as  warn't  spawned  this  year,  nor  lust 
nether." 

And  away  went  the  communicative  keeper. 

"Stanch  fellow,  the  keeper,"  said  Tom  to  himself,  as  ho 
reeled  out  yard  after  yard  of  his  tapered  line,  and  with  a 
gentle  sweep  dropped  his  collar  of  Hies  lightly  on  the  water, 
each  cast  covering  another  five  feet  of  the  dimpling  surface. 
"  Good  fellow,  the  keeper — don't  mind  telling  a  story  against 
himself — can  stand  being  laughed  at — more  tlian  his  master 
can.  Ah,  there's  the  fish  he  saw  sucking,  I'll  be  bound. 
Now,  you  beauties,  over  his  nose,  and  fall  light — don't  dis- 
grace your  bringing  up  !  "  and  away  went  the  flies  quivering 
through  the  air  and  lighting  close  to  the  opposite  bank, 
under  a  bunch  of  rushes.  A  slight  round  eddy  followed 
below  the  rushes,  as  the  cast  came  gently  back  across  the 
current. 

"  Ah,   you  see  them,   do  you,  old  boy  1 "  thought  Tom. 

Say  your  prayers,  then,  and  get  shrived  ! "  and  away  went 

D  D 


402  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFORD. 

the  fiies  again,  this  time  a  little  below.  No  movement.  Tlie 
third  throw,  a  great  lunge  and  splash,  and  the  next  moment 
the  lithe  rod  bent  double,  and  the  gut  collar  spun  along, 
catting  through  the  water  like  mad.  Up  goes  the  great  tish 
twice  into  the  air,  Tom  giving  him  the  point  ;  then  up  stream 
again,  Tom  giving  him  the  butt,  and  beginning  to  reel  up 
gently.  Down  goes  the  great  fish  into  the  swaying  weeds, 
working  with  his  tail  like  a  twelve-horse  screw.  "If  I  can 
only  get  my  nose  to  ground,"  thinks  he.  So  thinks  Tom,  and 
trusts  to  his  tackle,  keeping  a  steady  strain  on  trouty,  and 
creeping  gently  down  stream-  "  No  go,"  says  the  tish,  as  he 
feels  his  nose  steadily  hauled  round,  and  turns  with  a  swirl 
duwn  stream.  Away  goes  Tom,  reeling  in,  and  away  goes  the 
lish  in  hopes  of  a  slack — away,  for  twenty  or  thirty  yards — 
the  lish  coming  to  the  toj)  lazily,  now  and  again,  and  holding 
on  to  get  his  second  wind.  Now  a  cart  track  crossed  the 
stream,  no  weeds,  and  shallow  water  at  the  side.  "Here  we 
must  have  it  out,"  thinks  Tom,  and  turns  fish's  nose  up 
stream  again.  The  big  fish  gets  sullvy,  twice  diifts  towards 
the  shallow,  and  twice  plunges  away  at  the  sight  of  his 
enemy  into  the  deep  water.  The  third  time  he  comes  sway- 
ing in,  his  yellow  side  gleaming  and  his  mouth  open  ;  and, 
the  next  moment,  Tom  scoops  him  out  on  to  the  grass,  with  a 
"  whoo})  "  that  might  have  been  heard  at  the  house. 

"  Two-pounder,  if  he's  an  ounce,"  says  Tom,  as  he  gives  him 
tlie  cou])  de  grace,  and  lays  liim  out  lovingly  on  the  fresh 
green  sward, 

Who  amongst  you,  dear  readers,  can  appreciate  the  intense 
delight  of  grassing  your  fiist  big  fish  after  a  nine  monlU's 
fast  1  All  first  sensations  have  their  special  pleasure  ;  but 
none  can  be  named,  in  a  small  way,  to  beat  this  of  the  first 
fish  of  the  season.  The  first  clean  leg-hit  for  four  in  your 
first  match  at  Lord's — the  grating  of  the  bows  of  y<jur 
racing-boat  against  the  stern  of  the  boat  ahead  in  your  lust 
race — the  first  half-mile  of  a  burst  from  the  cover  side  ii\ 
November,  when  the  hounds  in  the  field  a-hXiad  may  be 
covered  with  a  table-cloth,  and  no  one  but  the  huntsman  and  a 
tup  sawyer  or  two  lies  between  you  and  them — the  first  brief 
"kfter  your  call  to  the  bar,  if  it  comes  within  the  year — the 
>  nsations  produced  by  these  are  the  same  in  kind  ;  but 
Ticket,  boating,  getting  briefs,  even  hunting  lose  their  edge 
us  time  goes  on.  As  to  lady  readers,  it  is  impossible,  pro- 
bably, to  give  them  an  idea  of  the  sensation  in  question. 
I'ej'haps  some  may  have  experienced  something  of  the  kind 
at  their  first  balls,  when  they  heard  whis[)ers  and  saw  all  eyes 
turning  theii-  way,  and  knew  that  thcii'  di'esses  and  gloves 


THE    RIVEK    SIDE.  403 

fitted  perfectly.  But  this  joy  can  be  felt  but  once  in  a  life, 
and  the  first  fish  couies  bacli  as  fresh  as  ever,  or  ought  to 
come,  if  all  men  had  their  rights,  once  in  a  season.  So,  good 
luck  to  the  gentle  craft,  and  its  professors,  and  may  the  Fates 
send  us  much  into  their  com[)any  !  The  trout-fishcr,  like  the 
landscape-painter,  haunts  the  loveliest  places  of  the  earth, 
and  haunts  them  alone.  Solitude,  nature,  and  his  own 
thoughts — he  must  be  on  the  best  terms  with  all  of  these  , 
and  he  who  can  take  kindly  the  largest  allowance  of  these 
is  likely  to  be  the  kindliest  and  truest  with  his  fellow- 
men. 

Tom  had  s^dendid  si)ort  thit  summer  morning.  As  the 
great  sun  rose  higher,  the  light  morning  breeze,  which  had 
curled  the  M'ater,  dii'd  away  ;  the  light  mist  drew  up  into 
light  cloud,  and  the  light  cloud  vanished,  into  cloudland,  for 
anything  I  know ;  and  still  the  fish  rose,  strange  to  say, 
though  Tom  felt  it  was  an  all'air  of  minutes,  and  acted  accord- 
ingly. At  eight  o'clock,  he  was  about  a  Cjuarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  house,  at  a  point  in  the  stream  of  rare  charms  both 
for  the  angler  and  the  lover  of  gentle  river  beauty.  The 
main  stream  was  crossed  by  a  lock,  formed  of  a  solid  brick 
bridge  with  no  pai'apets,  under  which  the  water  rushed 
through  four  small  arches,  each  of  which  could  be  closed  in 
an  instant  by  letting  down  a  heavy  wooden  lock  gate,  fitted 
in  grooves  on  the  u]>per  side  of  the  bridge.  Such  locks  are 
fre(|uent  in  the  west-country  streams — even  at  long  distances 
I'rom  mills  and  millers,  for  whose  behoof  they  were  made  in 
old  days,  that  the  supply  of  water  to  the  mill  might  be  easily 
regulated.  All  pious  anglers  should  bless  the  memories  of 
the  old  builders  of  them,  for  they  are  the  very  paradises  of 
the  great  trout,  who  frequent  the  old  briclcAvork  and  timber 
foundations.  The  water  in  its  rush  through  the  arches,  had 
of  course  worked  for  itself  a  deep  hole,  and  then,  sonie  twenty 
yards  below,  spread  itself  out  in  wanton  joyous  ripples  and 
eddies  over  a  broad  surface  some  fifty  yards  across,  and  dashed 
away  towards  a  little  island  some  two  hundred  yards  below, 
or  rolled  itself  slowly  back  towards  the  bridge  again,  up  the 
backwater  by  the  side  of  the  bank,  as  if  longing  for  another 
merry  rush  through  one  of  those  narrow  arches.  The  island 
below  was  crowned  with  splendid  alders,  willows  forty  feet 
high,  which  wept  into  the  water,  and  two  or  three  poplars  ; 
a  rich  mile  of  water  meadow,  with  an  occasional  willow  or 
alder,  lay  gleaming  beyond  ;  and  the  view  was  bounded  by  a 
glorious  wood,  which  crowned  the  gentle  slope,  at  the  foot  of 
which  the  river  ran.  Another  considerable  body  of  water, 
which  had  been  carried  off  above  from  the  main  stream  to 
i>  D  2 


404  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

flusli  tlie  water  meadows,  re  joined  its  parent  at  this  point  ;  it 
came  slowly  down  a  broad  artificial  ditch  running  parallel 
with  the  main  stream ;  and  the  narrow  strip  of  land  which 
divided  the  two  streams  ended  ahniptly  just  below  the  lock, 
forming  a  splendid  point  for  bather  or  angler.  Tom  had 
fixed  on  this  pool  as  his  bonne  bauche,  as  a  child  keeps  its 
plums  till  the  last,  and  stole  over  the  bridge,  stooping  low  to 
gain  the  point  above  indicated.  Having  gained  it,  he  glanced 
round  to  be  aware  of  the  dwarf  ash-trees  and  willows  whicly 
Were  scattered  along  the  strip  and  might  catch  heedless 
collars  and  spoil  sport,  when,  lying  lozily  nbuost  on  the  sur- 
face where  the  backwater  met  the  stream  from  the  meadows, 
he  beheld  the  great  grandfather  of  all  trcvat — a  fellow  two 
feet  long  and  a  foot  in  girth  at  the  shoulders,  just  moving  fin 
enough  to  keep  him  from  turning  over  on  to  his  back.  He 
threw  himself  flat  on  the  ground  and  crept  away  to  the  other 
side  of  the  strip  ;  the  king-fish  had  not  seen  him  ;  and  the 
next  moment  Tom  saw  him  suck  in  a  bee,  laden  with  his 
morning's  load  of  honey,  who  touched  the  water  unwarily 
close  to  his  nose.  With  a  trembling  hand,  Tom  took  off  his 
tail  fly,  and,  on  his  knees,  substituted  a  governor  ;  then, 
shortening  hie-  line  after  wetting  his  mimic  bee  in  the  pool 
behind  him,  tossed  it  gently  into  the  monster's  very  jaws. 
For  a  moment  the  fish  seemed  scared,  but,  the  next,  conscious 
in  his  strength,  lifted  his  nose  slowly  to  the  surface  and 
sucked  in  the  bait. 

Tom  struck  gently,  and  then  sprang  to  his  feet.  But  the 
Heavens  had  other  work  for  the  Icing-fish,  who  dived  swiftly 
under  the  bank  ;  a  slight  jar  followed,  and  Tom's  rod  was 
straight  over  his  head,  the  line  and  scarce  a  yard  of  his  trusty 
gut  collar  dangling  about  his  face.  He  seized  this  remnant 
with  horror  and  unsatisfied  longing,  and  examined  it  with 
care.  Could  he  have  overlooked  any  fraying  which  the  gut 
might  have  got  in  the  morning's  work  1  No :  he  had  gone 
over  every  inch  of  it  not  five  minutes  before,  as  he  nearcd 
the  pool.  Besides,  it  was  cut  clean  through,  not  a  trace  of 
bruise  or  fray  about  it.  How  could  it  have  happened  ?  He 
went  to  the  spot  and  looked  into  the  water  ;  it  was  slightly 
discoloured,  and  he  could  not  see  the  bottom.  He  threw  his 
fishing  coat  off,  rolled  up  the  sleeve  of  his  flannel  shirt,  and, 
lying  on  his  side,  felt  about  the  bank  and  tried  to  reach  the 
bottom,  but  couldn't.  So,  hearing  the  half-hour  bell  ring,  he 
deferred  further  inquiry,  and  stripped  in  silent  disgust  for 
a  plunge  in  the  pool.  Three  times  he  hurled  himself  into  the 
delicious  rush  of  the  cold  chalk  stream,  with  that  uttei 
abandon  in    which  man,  whose  bones  are  brittle,  can  only 


THE   EIVEE    SIDE.  405 

Indulge  when  there  are  six  or  seven  feet  of  water  between 
him  and  mother  earth  ;  and,  letting  the  stream  bear  him 
away  at  its  own  sweet  will  to  the  shallows  below,  struck  up 
again  through  the  rush  and  the  roar  to  his  plunging  place. 
Then,  slowly  and  luxuriously  dressing,  he  lit  his  short  pipo 
— companion  of  meditation — and  began  to  ruminate  on  ti.e 
escape  of  the  king-fish.  "What  could  have  cut  his  collar  1 
The  more  he  thought  the  less  he  could  make  it  out.  When 
suddenly  he  was  aware  of  the  keeper  on  his  wa}''  back  to  tho 
house  for  orders  and  breakfast. 

"What  sport,  sir?" 

"  Pretty  fair,"  said  Tom,  carelessly,  lugging  five  plump 
speckled  fellows,  weighing  some  seven  and  a  half  pounds, 
out  of  liis  creel,  and  laying  them  out  for  the  keeper's  inspec- 
tion. 

"  Well,  they  be  in  prime  order,  sir,  surely,"  says  tho 
keeper,  handling  them ;  "  they  alius  gets  mortal  thick 
across  the  shoulders  while  the  May-fly  be  on.  Lose  any 
sir?" 

"  I  put  in  some  little  ones  up  above,  and  lost  one  screamer 
just  up  the  back  ditch  there.  He  must  have  been  a  four- 
pounder,  and  went  off,  and  be  hanged  to  him,  with  two  yards 
of  my  collar  and  a  couple  of  first-rate  flies.  How  on  earth  he 
got  off  I  can't  tell !  "  and  he  went  on  to  unfold  the  particulars 
of  the  short  struggle. 

The  keeper  could  hardly  keep  down  a  grin.  "  Ah,  sir," 
said  he,  "  I  thinks  I  knows  what  spwiled  your  sport.  You 
owes  it  all  to  that  chap  as  I  was  a-telling  you  of,  or  my 
name's  not  Wilhun  Goddard  ; "  and  then,  fishing  the  lock- 
pole  Avith  a  hook  at  the  end  of  it  out  of  the  rushes,  he  began 
gi'oping  under  the  bank,  and  presently  haided  up  a  sort  of 
infernal  machine,  consisting  of  a  heavy  lump  of  wood,  a  yard 
or  so  long,  in  which  were  carefully  inserted  the  blades  of  four 
or  five  old  knives  and  razors,  while  a  crop  of  rusty  jagged 
nails  filled  up  the  spare  space. 

Tom  looked  at  it  in  wonder.  "  What  devil's  work  have 
you  got  hold  of  there  1 "  he  said  at  last. 

"  Eless  you,  sir,"  said  the  keeper,  "  'tis  only  our  shove-net 
traps  as  I  were  a-telling  you  of.  I  keeps  hard  upon  a  dozen 
on  'em,  and  shifts  'em  about  in  the  likeliest  holes  ;  and  I  takes 
care  to  let  the  men  as  is  about  the  water  meadows  see  me 
a-sharpening  on  'em  up  a  bit,  wi'  a  file,  now  and  again.  And, 
since  master  gev  me  orders  to  put  'em  in,  I  don't  thmk  they 
tries  that  game  on  not  once  a  montli." 

"  Well,  but  where  do  you  and  your  master  expect  to  go  to 
if  you  set  such  things  as  those  about  J"  said  Tom,  iookij'.j^ 


406  TOM   BEOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

serious.  "  Why,  you'll  be  cuttiug  some  fellow's  hand  or  foot 
half  off  one  of  these  days.  Suppose  I'd  waded  up  the  bank 
to  see  what  had  become  of  my  cast  1 " 

"  Lor',  sir,  I  never  thought  o'  that,"  said  the  keeper,  look- 
ing sheepish,  and  lifting  the  back  of  his  sliort  hat  off  his  head 
to  make  room  for  a  scratch  ;  "  but,"  added  he,  turning  tlie 
subject,  "  if  you  wants  to  keep  thay  artful  wosbirds  otf  the 
water,  you  must  frighten  'era  wi'  summat  out  o'  the  way. 
Diattle  'em,  I  knows  they  puts  me  to  my  wit's-end  ;  but 
you'd  never  'a  had  five  such  fish  as  them  afore  breakfast,  sir, 
if  we  didn't  stake  the  waters." 

"  Well,  and  1  don't  want  'em,  if  I  can't  get  'em  without. 
I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  keeper,  this  razor  lousiness  is  going  a 
bit  too  far ;  men  ain't  to  be  maimed  for  liking  a  bit  of  sport. 
You  set  spring-guns  in  the  woods,  and  you  know  what  that 
came  to.  Why  don't  you,  or  one  of  your  watchers,  stop 
out  here  at  night,  and  catch  the  fellows,  like  men  1 " 

"  Why,  you  see,  sir,  master  don't  allow  me  but  one  watcher, 
and  he's  uiortal  feared  o'  the  Avater,  he  be,  specially  o'  nights. 
He'd  sooner  by  half  stop  up  in  the  woods.  Dadtly  Collins 
(that's  an  old  woman  as  lives  on  the  heath,  sir.  and  a  bad 
sort  she  be,  too)  well,  she  told  he  once,  when  he  wouldn't 
'^ee  her  some  bacclij^  as  he'd  got,  and  slie'd  a  mind  to,  as  he'd 
;l  twice  into  the  water  for  once  as  he'd  get  out ;  and  th'  poor 
chap  ever  since  can't  think  but  wliat  he'll  be  drownded.  And 
there's  queer  sights  and  sounds  by  the  river  o'  nights,  too, 
I  'ool  say,  sir,  let  alone  the  white  mist,  as  makes  everything 
look  uuket,  and  gives  a  chap  the  rheumatics." 

"Well,  but  you  ain't  afraid  of  ghosts  and  rheumatism'?'' 

"  No,  I  don't  know  as  I  be,  sir.  But  then,  there's  the 
pheasants  a-breedin',  and  there's  four  brood  of  flappers  in  the 
withey  bed,  and  a  sight  of  young  hares  in  the  spmncys.  I 
be  liard  put  to  to  mind  it  all." 

"  I  daresay  you  are,"  said  Tom,  putting  on  his  coat,  and 
shoiildering  his  rod  ;  "  I've  a  good  mind  to  take  a  turn  at  it 
myself,  to  help  you,  if  you'll  only  drop  those  razors." 

"  I  Avishes  you  would,  sir,"  said  the  keeper,  from  behind  ; 
"  if  genl'men  'd  sometimes  take  a  watch  at  nights,  they'd  find 
out  as  keepers  hadn't  all  fair-weather  work,  I'll  warrant,  if 
they're  to  keep  a  good  head  o'  game  about  a  place.  'Taint  all 
popping  olf  guns,  and  lunching  under  hayricks,  I  can  tell 
'em — no,  nor  half  on  it." 

"  Where  do  you  think,  now,  this  fellow  we  were  talking 
of  sells  his  fish  1 "  said  Tom,  after  a  minute's  thought. 

"Mostly  at  Reading  Market,  I  hears  tell,  sir.  There's 
the  guard  of  the  mail,  as  goes  by  the  cross-roads  three  days 


1 


THE    NIGHT   WATCH.  407 

a  week,  he  Avur  a  rare  poaching  cliap  hisself  down  in  the 

west    afore    he   got    his    place    along    of    his    bngle-playini:^. 

They  do  say  as  he's  open  to  any  game,  he  is  from  a  biK^k 

to  a  snipe,  and  drives  a  trade  all  down  the  road  with  the 

country  chaps." 

"  What  day  is  Eeading  Market  1 " 

"Tuesdays  and  Saturdays,  sir." 

"  And  what  time  does  the  mail  go  by  1 " 

"  Six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  sir,  at  the  cross-roads." 

"  And  they're  three  miles  off,  across  the  fields  ? " 

"Thereabouts,  sir.     I   reckons  it  alx)ut  a  forty   minutes' 

stretch,  and  no  time  lost." 

"There'll  be  no  more  big  fish  caught  on  the  fly  to-day," 

said  Tom,  after  a  minute's  silence,  as  they  nearcd  the  house. 
The  wind  had  fallen  dead,  and  not  a  spot  of  cloud  in  the 

sky. 

"  Not  afore  nightfall,  I  think,  sir ; "  and  the  keeper  di.s- 

appeared  towards  the  offices. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIL 

THE    NIGRT    WATCH. 

"You  ma}^  do  as  you  please,  but  Tm  going  to  see  it  out." 

"  Xo,  but  I  say,  do  come  along  ;  that's  a  good  fellow." 

"Not  I;  why,  we've  only  just  come  out.  Didn't  you 
hear  1  Wurley  dared  me  to  do  a  night's  watching,  and  I  said 
I  meant  to  do  it." 

"  Yes  ;  so  did  I,  But  we  can  change  our  minds.  AVhat's 
the  good  of  having  a  mind  if  you  can't  change  it !  ai  SevTepni 
TTtoc  <ppoi'Ti8a<;  an(f)(DTepai — isn't  that  good  Greek  and  good 
sense  ? " 

"  I  don't  see  it.  They'll  only  laugli  and  sneer  if  we  go 
back  now." 

"  They'll  laugh  at  \is  twice  as  much  if  we  don't.  Fancy  ! 
they're  just  beginning  pool  now  on  that  stunning  table. 
Come  along.  Brown  ;  don't  miss  your  chance.  We  shall  be 
sure  to  divide  the  pools,  as  we've  missed  the  claret.  Cool 
hands  and  cool  heads,  you  know  !  Green  on  bro^vn,  pink 
your  player  in  hand  !  That's  a  good  deal  pleasanter  than 
squatting  here  all  night  on  the  damp  grass." 

"  Very  likely." 

"But  you  won't?  Now,  do  be  reasonable.  Will  you 
come  if  I  stop  ^vith  you  another  half-hour  ?" 

"  No." 


408  TOM  BKOVVN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  An  hour  then  1     Say  till  ten  o'clock  ? " 

"  If  I  went  at  ail,  I  •would  go  at  oui;e." 

"  Then  you  won't  come  ]  " 

"  No." 

"  I'll  bet  you  a  sovereign  you  never  see  a  poacher,  and 
tht-n  how  sold  you  will  be  in  the  morning  !  It  will  be  much 
■worse  coming  in  to  breakfast  with  empty  hands  and  a  cold  in 
the  head,  than  going  in  now.  They  will  chatf  then,  I  grant 
you." 

"  AVell,  then,  they  may  chaff  and  be  hanged,  for  I  sha'n't 
go  in  now." 

Tom's  interlocutor  put  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his 
heather  mixture  shooting-coat,  and  took  a  turn  or  two  of  some 
dozen  yards,  backwards  and  forwards,  above  the  place  where 
our  hero  was  sitting,  lie  didn't  like  going  in  and  facing  the 
pool-jjlayers  by  himself  3  so  he  stopped  once  more  and  re- 
opened the  conversation. 

"  AVhat  do  you  want  to  do  by  watching  all  night.  Brown  V 

"To  show  the  keeper  and  those  fellows  indoors  that  I  mean 
what  I  say.     I  said  I'd  do  it,  and  I  will." 

"  You  don't  want  to  catch  a  poacher,  then  1 " 

"  I  don't  much  care  :  I'll  catch  one  if  he  comes  in  my  way 
— or  try  it  on,  at  any  rate." 

"  I  say,  Brown,  I  like  that ;  as  if  you  don't  poach  yourself. 
Why,  I  remember  when  the  Wliiteham  keeper  spent  tlie  best 
part  of  a  week  outside  the  college  gates,  on  the  look-out  foi 
you  and  Drysdale  and  some  other  fellows." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  T' 

"  Why,  you  ought  to  have  more  fellow-feeling.  I  suppose 
you  go  on  the  prmciple  of  set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief?" 

Tom  made  no  answer,  and  his  companion  went  on — 

"  Come  along  now,  like  a  good  fellow.  If  youll  come 
in  now,  we  can  come  out  again  aU  fresh,  when  the  rest  go  to 
bed." 

"Not  we.  I  sha'n't  go  in.  But  you  can  come  out  again, 
if  you  like  ;  you'll  find  me  hereabouts." 

The  man  in  the  heather  mixture  had  now  shot  his  last  bolt, 
and  took  himself  olf  to  the  house,  leaving  Tom  by  the  river 
side.  How  they  got  there  may  be  told  in  a  few  words.  After 
his  morning's  fishing,  and  conversation  with  the  keeper,  he 
had  gone  in  full  of  his  subject,  and  propounded  it  at  the 
breakfast  table.  His  strictures  on  the  knife  and  razor  busi- 
ness produced  a  rather  wanu  discussion,  which  merged  in  the 
question  whether  a  keeper's  life  was  a  hard  one,  till  some- 
rJiing  was  said  implying  that  Wuvley's  men  were  over-workod. 
The  master  took  this  in  high  dudgeon,  and  words  ran  high. 


THE    NIGHT   WATCH.  409 

In  the  discussion  Tom  remarked  {apropos  of  night- work)  that 
he  would  never  ask  another  man  to  do  what  he  would  not  do 
himself ;  which  sentiment  was  endorsed  by,  amongst  others, 
the  man  in  the  heather  mixture.  The  host  had  retorted, 
that  they  had  better  in  that  case  try  it  themselves ;  which 
remark  had  the  eflect  of  making  Tom  resolve  to  cut  short  his 
visit,  and  in  the  meantime  had  brought  him  and  his  ally  to 
the  river  side  on  the  niglit  in  question. 

The  first  hour,  as  we  have  seen,  had  been  enough  for  the 
ally  ;  and  so  Tom  w^as  left  in  company  with  a  plaid,  a  stick, 
and  a  pipe,  to  spend  the  night  by  himself. 

It  was  by  no  means  the  first  night  he  had  spent  in  the 
open  air,  and  promised  to  be  a  pleasant  one  for  camping 
out.  It  was  almost  the  longest  day  in  the  year,  and  the 
weather  was  magnificent.  There  was  yet  an  hour  of  daylight, 
and  the  place  he  had  chosen  was  just  the  right  one  for  enjoy- 
ing the  evening. 

He  was  sitting  under  one  of  a  clump  of  huge  old  alders, 
growing  on  the  thin  strip  of  land  already  noticed,  Avhich 
divided  the  main  stream  from  the  deep  artificial  ditch  which 
fed  the  water-meadows.  On  his  left  the  emerald-green 
meadows  stretched  away  till  they  met  the  inclosed  corn-land. 
On  liis  right  ran  the  main  streaui,  some  fifty  feet  in  breadth 
at  this  point ;  on  the  oj>posite  side  of  which  was  a  rough  piece 
of  ground,  half  withey-bed,  half  copse,  with  a  rank  growth  of 
rushes  at  the  water's  edge.  These  were  the  chosen  haunts  of 
the  moor-hen  and  water-rat,  whose  tracks  could  be  seen  by 
dozens,  like  small  open  doorways,  looking  out  on  to  the  river, 
through  which  ran  mysterious  little  paths  into  the  rush- 
wilderness  beyond. 

The  sun  was  now  going  down  behind  the  copse,  through 
which  his  beams  came  aslant,  chequered  and  melloAV.  TliC 
stream  ran  dimpHng  down  by  him,  sleepily  swaying  the  masses 
of  weed,  under  the  surface  and  on  the  surface  ;  and  the  trout 
rose  under  the  banks,  as  some  moth  or  gnat  or  gleaming  beetle 
fell  into  the  stream  ;  here  and  there  one  more  frolicsome  than 
his  brethren  would  throw  himself  joyously  into  the  air.  The 
swifts  rushed  close  by  him,  in  companies  of  five  or  six,  and 
wheeled,  and  screamed,  and  clashed  away  again,  skimming 
along  the  water,  baffling  his  eye  as  he  tried  to  follow  their 
flight.  Two  kingfishers  shot  suddenly  up  on  to  their  supper 
station,  on  a  stunted  willow  stump,  some  twenty  yards  below 
him,  and  sat  there  in  the  glory  of  their  blue  backs  and  cloudy 
red  waistcoats,  watching  with  long  sagacious  beaks  pointed  to 
the  water  beneath,  and  every  now  and  then  dropping  like 
flashes  of  light  into  the  strtiamj  and  rising  again,  with  ^vh^.<,4 


410  TOM    BllOWN   AT   OXFORD, 

seemed  one  motion,  to  tlicir  perches.  A  heron  or  two  were 
fisliing  about  the  meadows  ;  and  he  watched  them  stalking 
abont  in  their  sober  quaker  coats,  or  rising  on  slow  heavy 
wing,  and  lumbering  away  home  with  a  weird  cry.  lie  heard 
the  strong  pinions  of  the  wood  pigeon  in  the  air,  and  then 
from  the  trees  above  his  head  came  the  soft  call,  "Take-two- 
cow-Taffy,  take-two-cow-TafTy,"  with  which  that  fair  and  false 
bird  is  said  to  have  beguiled  the  hapless  Welch  man  to  the 
gallows.  Presently,  as  he  lay  motionless,  the  timid  and 
graceful  little  water-hens  peered  out  from  their  doors  in  the 
rushes  opyjosite,  and,  seeing  no  cause  for  fear,  stepped  daintily 
ijito  the  water,  and  were  suddenly  surrounded  by  little  bundles 
of  black  soft  down,  which  went  paddling  about  in  and  out  of 
the  weeds,  encouraged  by  the  occasional  sharp,  clear,  parental 
"  keck — keck,"  and  mei'iy  little  dabchicks  poppeil  up  in  mid- 
stream, and  looked  round,  and  nodded  at  him,  pert  and  voice- 
less, and  dived  again  ;  even  old  cunning  water-rats  sat  up  on 
the  bank  with  round  black  noses  and  gleaming  eyes,  or  took 
solemn  swims  out,  and  turned  up  their  tails  and  disappeareil 
for  his  anuiscment.  A  comfortable  low  came  at  intervals  from 
the  cattle,  revelling  in  the  abundant  herbage.  All  living  things 
seemed  to  be  disporting  themselves,  and  enjoying,  after  their 
kind,  the  last  gleams  of  the  sunset,  which  were  making  the 
whole  vault  of  heaven  glow  and  shimmer  ;  and,  as  he  watched 
them,  Tom  blessed  his  stars  as  he  conti'asted  the  river-side  with 
the  glare  of  lamps  and  the  click  of  balls  in  the  noisy  pool-room. 
Jiefore  it  got  dark  he  bethought  him  of  making  sure 
of  his  position  once  more  ;  matters  might  have  changed  since 
he  chose  it  before  dinner.  With  all  that  he  could  extract 
from  the  kee2)er,  and  his  own  experience  in  such  matters,  it 
liad  taken  him  sevei'al  hours'  hunting  up  and  down  the  river 
that  afternoon  before  he  had  hit  on  a  night-line.  But  he  had 
persevered,  knowing  that  this  was  the  only  safe  evidence  to 
start  from,  and  at  last  had  found  several,  so  cunningly  set  that 
it  was  clear  that  it  was  a  first-rate  artist  in  the  poaching  line 
against  whom  he  had  pitted  himself.  These  lines  must  have 
been  laid  almost  under  his  nose  on  that  very  day,  as  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  baits  proved.  The  one  which  he  had  selected  to 
watch  by  was  under  the  bank,  within  a  few  j\ards  of  the 
clump  of  alders  where  he  was  now  sitting.  There  was  no 
satisfactory  cover  near  tlie  others  ;  so  he  had  chosen  this  one, 
vhere  he  would  be  perfectly  concealed  behind  the  nearest 
iruuk  from  any  person  who  might  come  in  ilue  time  to  take 
up  the  line.  With  this  view,  then,  he  got  up,  and,  stepping 
carefully  on  the  tliickest  grass,  where  his  foot  would  leave  no 
mark,  went  to  the  bank,  and  felt  with  the  hook  of  his  stick 


I 


THE    NIOHT   WATCn.  411 

after  tlie  line.  It  was  all  right,  and  be  returned  to  his  ohl 
scat. 

And  then  the  summer  twilight  came  on,  and  the  birds  dis- 
appeared, and  the  hush  of  night  settled  down  on  river,  and 
copse,  and  meadow — cool  and  gentle  summer  twilight  after 
the  hot  bright  day.  He  welcomed  it  too,  as  it  folded  up  tlie 
landscape,  and  the  trees  lost  their  outline,  and  settled  into 
soft  black  masses  rising  here  and  there  out  of  the  white  mist, 
wliich  seemed  to  have  crept  up  to  within  a  few  yards  all  round 
him  unawares.  There  was  no  sound  now  but  the  yentle 
murmur  of  the  water,  and  an  occasional  rustle  of  reeds,  or  of 
the  leaves  over  his  head,  as  a  stray  wandering  putf  of  air 
passed  through  them  on  its  way  home  to  bed.  Nothing  to 
listen  to,  and  nothing  to  look  at ;  for  the  moon  had  not  risen, 
and  the  light  mist  hid  everything  except  a  star  or  two  right 
up  above  him.  So,  the  outside  world  having  left  him  for  the 
present,  he  was  turned  inwards  on  himself. 

This  was  all  very  well  at  first ;  and  he  Avrapped  the  plaid 
round  his  shoiJders  and  leant  against  his  tree,  and  indulged 
in  a  little  self-gratulation.  There  was  something  of  strangeness 
and  adventure  in  his  solitary  night-watch,  which  had  its 
charm  for  a  youngster  of  twenty-one  ;  and  the  consciousness 
of  not  running  from  his  word,  of  doing  what  he  had  said  he 
would  do,  while  others  shirked  and  brolce  down,  was  decidedly 
pleasant. 

15ut  this  satisfaction  did  not  last  very  long,  and  the  night 
began  to  get  a  little  wearisome,  and  too  cool  to  be  quite  com- 
foi'table.  By  degrees  doubts  as  to  the  wisdom  of  his  self- 
imposetl  task  crept  into  his  liead.  He  dismissed  them  for  a 
time  by  turning  his  thouglits  to  other  matters.  The  ncigh- 
bourliood  of  Englebourn,  some  two  miles  up  above  him, 
reminded  hira  of  the  previous  summer  ;  and  he  wondered 
how  he  should  get  on  with  his  cousin  wlieii  they  met.  He 
should  probably  see  her  the  next  day,  for  he  woiild  lose  no 
time  in  calling.  "Would  she  receive  him  well  ?  AV^ould  she 
have  much  to  tell  him  about  jNIary  1 

He  had  been  more  hojieful  on  this  subject  of  late,  but  the 
loneliness,  the  utter  solitude  and  silence  of  his  position,  as  lie 
sal  there  in  the  misty  night,  away  from  all  human  habitations, 
was  not  favourable  somehow  to  hopefulness.  He  fouml  him- 
self getting  dreary  and  sombre  in  heart — more  and  more  so 
as  the  minutes  rolled  on,  and  the  silence  and  loneliness  pressed 
on  him  more  and  more  lieavily.  He  was  surprised  at  his  own 
down-heartedncss,  and  tried  to  remember  how  he  had  spent 
former  nights  so  pleasantly  out  of  doors.  Ah,  he  had  alwaya 
had  a  companion   witliin  call,   and  something  to  do — cray 


412  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

fishing,  bat  fowling,  or  something  of  the  kmd !  Sitting  there 
doing  nothing,  he  fancied,  must  make  it  so  heavy  to-uight. 
liy  a  strong  effort  of  will  he  shook  oif  the  oppression.  Ha 
moved,  and  hummed  a  tune  to  bl^»ak  the  silence ;  he  got  up 
and  -walked  up  and  down,  lest  it  should  again  master  him.  If 
wmd,  storm,  pouring  rain,  anything  to  make  sound  or  move- 
ment, would  but  come  ! 

Eut  neither  of  them  came,  and  there  was  little  help  in 
sound  or  movement  made  by  himself.  Besides,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  much  walking  up  and  down  might  defeat  the 
object  of  his  watch.  No  one  would  come  near  while  he  was 
on  the  move ;  and  he  was  probably  making  marks  already 
which  might  catch  the  eye  of  the  setter  of  the  night-lines  at 
some  distance,  if  that  cunning  party  waited  for  the  morning 
light,  and  might  keep  him  away  from  the  place  altogether. 

So  he  sat  down  again  on  his  old  seat,  and  leant  hard  against 
the  alder  trunk,  as  though  to  steady  himself,  and  keep  all 
troublesome  thoughts  well  in  front  of  him.  In  this  attitude 
of  defence  he  reasoned  with  himself  on  the  absurdity  of 
allowing  himself  to  be  depressed  by  the  mere  accidents  of 
place,  and  darkness,  and  silence ;  but  all  the  reasoning  at  his 
command  didn't  alter  the  fact.  He  felt  the  enemy  advancing 
again,  and,  casting  about  for  help,  fell  back  on  the  thought 
that  lie  was  going  through  a  task,  holding  to  his  word,  doing 
what  he  had  said  he  would  do  ]  and  this  brought  him  some 
relief  for  the  moment.  He  fixed  his  mind  steadily  on  this 
task  of  his ;  but  alas,  here  again,  in  his  very  last  stronghold, 
the  enemy  began  to  turn  his  liank,  and  the  position  every 
minute  became  more  and  more  untenable. 

He  had  of  late  tallen  into  a  pestilent  habit  of  cross-ques- 
tioning himself  on  anything  which  he  was  about — setting  up 
himself  like  a  cock  at  Shrovetide,  and  pelting  himself  with 
inexorable  "whys?"  and  "wherefores'?"  A  pestilent  habit 
truly  he  had  found  it,  and  one  which  left  a  man  no  peace  of 
his  life — a  relentless,  sleepless  habit,  always  ready  to  take 
advantage  of  him,  but  never  so  viciously  alert,  that  he  re- 
membered, as  on  this  night. 

And  so  this  questionuig  self,  which  would  never  be  denied 
for  long,  began  to  examine  him  as  to  his  proposed  night's 
work.  This  precious  task  which  he  was  so  proud  of  going 
through  with,  on  the  score  of  which  he  had  been  in  his  heart 
crowing  over  others,  because  they  had  not  taken  it  on  them, 
or  had  let  it  drop,  what  then  was  the  meaning  of  it  ] 

"  ^V^:lat  was  he  out  there  for  1  What  had  he  come  out  to 
do  1  "  They  were  awkward  questions.  He  tried  several 
'answers,  ai\d  was  driven  from  one  to   another  till  lie  wi:s 


THE    NIGHT    WATCH.  413 

bound  to  admit  that  he  was  out  there  that  night  partly  out 
of  pique,  and  partly  out  of  pride  :  and  that  his  object  (next 
to  earning  the  pleasure  of  thinking  himself  a  better  man  than 
his  neiglibours)  was,  if  so  be,  to  catch  a  poacher.  "  To  catch 
a  poacher  1  What  business  had  he  to  be  catching  poachers  1 
If  all  poachers  were  to  be  caught,  he  would  have  to  be  caught 
himself."  He  had  just  had  an  unpleasant  reminder  of  this 
fact  from  him  of  the  heather  mixtures — a  Parthian  remark 
which  he  had  thrown  over  his  shoulder  as  he  went  off,  and 
which  had  stucK.  "  But  then,"  Tom  argued,  "  it  was  a  very 
diiferent  thing,  his  ponching — going  out  for  a  day's  lark 
after  game,  Avliich  he  didn't  care  a  straw  for,  but  only  for  the 
sport — and  that  of  men  making  a  trade  of  it,  like  the 
man  the  keeper  spoke  of."  "  Why  1  How  different  ?  H 
there  Avere  any  difference,  was  it  one  in  his  favour  1 "  Avoid- 
ing this  suggestion,  he  took  up  new  ground.  "  Poachers  were 
alwnys  the  greatest  blackguards  in  their  neighbourhoods,  pests 
of  society,  and  ought  to  be  put  down."  "  Possibly — at  any 
rate  he  had  been  one  of  the  fraternity  in  his  time,  and  was 
scarcely  tlie  man  to  be  casting  stones  at  them."  '■  Put  his 
poaching  had  always  been  done  thoughtlessly."  "  How  did 
he  know  that  others  had  worse  motives  1 " 

And  so  he  went  on,  tossing  the  matter  backwards  arid 
forAvards  in  his  mind,  and  getting  more  and  more  uncomfort- 
able, and  luiable  to  answer  to  his  own  satisfaction  the  simple 
question,  "  What  right  have  you  to  be  out  here  on  this 
errand  1 " 

He  got  up  a  second  time  and  walked  up  and  down,  but 
with  no  better  success  than  before.  The  change  of  position, 
and  exercise,  did  not  help  him  out  of  his  difficulties.  And 
now  he  got  a  step  further.  If  he  had  no  right  to  be  there, 
liadn't  he  better  go  up  to  the  house  and  say  so,  and  go  to  bed 
like  the  rest  ]  No,  his  pride  couhln't  stand  that.  But,  if 
ho  couldn't  go  in,  he  might  turn  into  a  barn  or  outhouse  ; 
nobody  would  be  any  the  wiser  then,  and  after  all  he  was  not 
pledged  to  stop  on  one  spot  all  night  1  It  was  a  tempting 
suggestion,  and  he  was  very  near  yieldmg  to  it  at  once. 
AVhile  he  wavered,  a  new  set  of  thoughts  came  up  to  back  it. 
How,  if  he  stayed  there,  and  a  gang  of  night-poachers  came  1 
He  knew  that  many  of  them  were  desperate  men.  He  had 
no  arms  ;  what  could  he  do  against  them  ?  Nothing  ;  but 
he  might  be  maimed  for  life  in  a  night  row  which  he  had  no 
business  to  be  in — nuirdered,  perhaps.  He  stood  still  and 
listened  long  and  painfully. 

Every  moment,  as  he  listened,  the  silence  mastered  him 
more  and  more,  and  his  reason  became  more  and  n.'ore  power- 


414  TOM    BKOWN    AT    OXFORD. 

less.  It  was  such  a  silence — a  great  illimitable,  vague  silence  ! 
The  silence  of  a  deserted  house,  where  he  could  at  least  have 
felt  that  he  was  bounded  somewhere,  by  wall,  and  tioor,  and 
roof — where  men  must  have  lived  and  worked  once,  though 
tliey  might  be  there  no  longer — would  have  been  nothing  ;  but 
this  silence  of  the  huge,  wide  out-of-doors  world,  where  there 
was  notliing  but  air  and  space  around  and  above  him,  and  the 
ground  beneath,  it  was  getting  irksome,  intolerable,  awful  ! 
The  gi-eat  silence  seemed  to  be  saying  to  him,  "  You  are 
alone,  alone,  alone  !  "  and  he  had  never  known  before  what 
horror  lurked  in  that  thought. 

Every  moment  that  he  stood  still  the  spell  grew  stronger 
on  him,  and  yet  he  dared  not  move  ;  and  a  strange,  wild 
feeling  of  fear — unrnistakeable  jtliysical  fear,  which  made  his 
heart  beat  and  his  limbs  tremble — seized  on  him.  lie  was 
ready  to  cry  out,  to  fall  down,  to  run,  and  yet  there  he  stood 
listening,  still  and  motionless. 

The  critical  moment  in  all  panics  must  come  at  last.  A 
wild  and  grewsome  hissing  and  snoring,  which  seemed  to  come 
from  the  air  just  over  his  head,  made  him  start  and  spring 
forward,  and  gave  him  the  use  of  his  limbs  again  at  any  rate, 
though  they  would  not  have  been  Avorth  much  to  lum  had 
the  ghost  or  hobgoblin  a|)pearcd  whom  he  half  expected  to 
see  the  next  moment.  Then  came  a  screech,  which  seemed  to 
fiit  along  tlie  rough  meadow  opposite,  and  come  towards 
him.  He  drew  a  long  bre;itli,  for  he  knew  that  sound  well 
enough  ;  it  was  nothing  after  all  but  the  owls. 

The  mere  realized  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  some 
living  creatures,  were  they  only  owls,  brought  him  to  his 
senses.  And  now  the  moon  was  well  up,  and  the  wayward 
mist  had  cleared  away,  and  he  could  catch  glimpses  of  the 
solemn  birds  every  now  and  then,  beating  over  the  rough 
meadow  backwards  and  forwards,  and  over  the  shallow  water, 
as  regularly  as  trained  pointers. 

He  threw  himself  down  again  under  his  tree,  and  now 
bethought  himself  of  his  pipe.  Here  was  a  companion  which, 
wcjuderful  to  say,  he  had  not  thought  of  before  since  the 
night  set  in.  He  pulled  it  out,  but  paused  before  lighting. 
[Nothing  was  so  likely  to  betray  his  whereabouts  as  tobacco. 
True,  but  anything  was  better  than  such  another  fright  as  he 
had  had,  "  so  here  goes,"  he  thuught,  "  if  I  keep  off  all  the 
poachers  in  Berkshire  ; "  and  he  accordingly  lighted  up,  and, 
with  the  help  of  his  pipe,  once  more  debated  with  himself  the 
question  of  beating  a  retreat. 

After  a  sharj)  inward  struggle,  he  concluded  to  stay  and 
see  it  out      He  should  despise  himself,  more  than  he  cared 


i 


TUE   NlGiiT    WATCH.  415 

to  face,  if  lie  gave  hi  now.  If  lie  left  that  spot  before  moi'n- 
ing,  the  motive  would  be  sheer  cowardice.  There  might  be 
fifty  other  good  reasons  for  going  ;  but,  if  he  went,  his  reason 
■would  be  fear  and  nothing  else.  It  might  have  been  wrong 
anil  foolish  to  come  out ;  it  must  be  to  go  in  now.  "  Fear  never 
made  a  man  do  a  right  action,"  he  summed  up  to  himself  ;  "  so 
here  I  stop,  come  what  may  of  it.  1  think  I've  seen  tlie 
worst  of  it  now.  I  was  in  a  real  blue  findv,  and  no  mistake. 
Let's  see,  wasn't  I  laughing  tliis  morning  at  the  watcher  wlio 
diihi't  like  passing  a  niglit  by  tlie  river?  Well,  lie  has  got 
the  laugh  of  me  now,  if  he  only  knew  it.  I've  learnt  one 
lesson  to-night  at  any  rate ;  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  be  very 
\iard  on  cowards  again." 

By  the  time  he  had  finished  his  pipe,  he  was  a  man  again, 
and,  moreover,  notwithstanding  the  damp,  began  .to  feel 
sleepy,  now  that  his  mind  was  thoroughly  made  up,  and  his 
nerves  were  quiet.  So  he  made  the  best  of  his  plaid,  and 
picked  a  softish  place,  and  went  oil"  into  a  sort  of  dog-sleep, 
which  lasted  at  intervals  through  the  short  summer  night. 
A  j)oor  thin  sort  of  sleep  it  was,  in  which  he  never  altogether 
lost  his  consciousness,  and  bi'oken  by  short  intervals  of  actual 
wakeiulness,  but  a  blessed  release  from  the  self-tj^uestionings 
and  panics  ol'  the  early  inght. 

He  woke  at  last  with  a  shiver.  It  was  colder  than  he  had 
yet  felt  it,  and  it  seemed  lighter.  He  stretched  his  half-torpid 
limbs,  and  sat  up.  Yes,  it  was  ceilainly  getting  light,  for  he 
could  just  make  out  the  figures  on  the  face  of  his  watch  which 
he  pulled  out.  The  dawn  was  almost  upon  him,  and  his 
night  watch  was  over.  Nothing  had  come  of  it  as  yet,  except 
his  fright,  at  which  he  could  now  laugh  comfortably  enough; 
])iot)ably  nothing  more  might  come  of  it  al'ter  all,  but 
he  had  done  the  task  he  had  set  himself  without  flincliing, 
aiid  that  M'as  a  satisfaction.  He  wound  up  his  watch,  which 
he  had  forgotten  to  do  the  night  before,  and  then  stood  up, 
anil  threw  his  damp  plaid  aside,  and  swung  his  arms  across 
his  chest  to  restore  circulation.  The  crescent  moon  was  high 
up  in  the  sky,  faint  and  white,  and  he  could  scarcely  now 
make  out  the  stars,  which  were  fading  out  as  the  glow  in  the 
north-east  got  stronger  and  broader. 

Forgetting  for  a  moment  the  purpose  of  his  vigil,  he  was 
tliinking  of  a  long  morning's  fishing,  and  had  turned  to  pick 
up  his  plaid  and  go  off  to  the  house  for  his  fishing-rod, 
when  he  thought  he  heard  the  souiid  of  dry  wood  snap])ing. 
He  listened  intently  ;  and  the  next  moment  it  came  again, 
some  way  off,  but  plainly  to  be  heard  in  the  intense  stillness 
of  the  morning.     Some  living  thing  was  moving  down  the 


41  G  TOM   BROWN    AT   OXFORD. 

stream.  Another  moment's  listening,  and  lie  was  convinced 
that  the  sound  camo  from  a  hedge  some  hundred  yards  helow. 

He  had  noticed  the  hedge  hefore  :  the  keej^er  had  stopped 
up  a  gap  in  it  the  day  before,  at  the  place  where  it  came  down 
to  tlie  Avater,  with  some  ohl  hurdles  and  dry  thorns.  He  drew 
himself  up  behind  his  alder,  looking  out  from  behind  it  cauti 
ously  towards  the  point  from  which  the  sound  came.  He  could 
just  make  out  the  hedge  through  the  mist,  but  saw  nothing. 

But  now  the  crackling  began  again,  and  he  was  sure  that 
a  man  was  forcing  his  way  over  the  keeper's  barricade.  A 
moment  afterwards  he  saw  a  figiire  drop  from  the  hedge  into 
the  slip  in  which  he  stood.  He  drew  back  his  head  hastily, 
and  his  heart  beat  like  a  hammer  as  he  waited  the  approach 
of  the  stranger.  In  a  few  seconds  the  suspense  was  too  much 
for  him,  for  again  there  was  perfect  silence.  He  peered  out 
a  second  time  cautiously  round  the  tree,  and  now  he  could 
make  out  the  figure  of  a  man  stooping  by  the  water-side  just 
above  the  hedge,  and  drawing  in  a  line.  This  was  enough, 
and  he  drew  back  again,  and  made  himself  small  behind  the 
tree ;  now  he  was  sure  that  the  keeper's  enemy,  the  man  he 
had  come  out  to  take,  was  here.  His  next  halt  would  be  at 
the  line  which  was  set  within  a  few  yards  of  the  place  Avhere 
he  stood.  So  the  struggle  which  he  had  courted  was  come  ! 
All  his  doubts  of  the  night  wrestled  in  his  mind  for  a  minute  ; 
but,  forcing  them  down,  he  strung  himself  up  for  the  encounter, 
his  whole  frame  trembling  with  excitement,  and  his  blood 
tingling  through  his  veins  as  though  it  would  burst  them. 
The  next  minute  was  as  severe  a  trial  of  nerve  as  he  had  ever 
been  put  to,  and  the  sound  of  a  stealthy  tread  on  the  grass  just 
below  came  to  him  as  a  relief.  It  stopped,  and  he  heard  the 
man  stoop,  tlien  came  a  stir  in  the  water,  and  the  flapping  as 
of  a  fish  being  landed. 

Now  was  his  time !  He  sprang  from  behind  the  tree,  and, 
the  next  moment,  was  over  the  stooping  figure  of  the  poacher. 
Before  he  could  seize  him  the  n:iun  spraiig  up,  and  grappled 
MTth  him.  They  had  come  to  a  tight  lock  at  once,  for  the 
poacher  had  risen  so  close  under  him  that  he  could  not  catch 
his  collar  and  hoM  him  off.  Too  close  to  strike,  it  was  a  des- 
perate trial  of  strength  and  bottom. 

Tom  Icnew  in  a  moment  tliat  he  had  his  work  cut  out  for 
him.  He  felt  the  nervous  power  of  the  frame  he  had  got 
hold  of  as  he  drove  his  chin  into  the  poacher's  shoulder,  and 
arched  liis  back,  and  strained  every  muscle  in  his  body  to 
force  him  backwards,  but  in  vain.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to 
hold  his  own  ;  but  he  felt  that  he  might  hold  it  yet,  as  they 
staggered  on  the  brink  of  the  back  ditch,  stamping  the  grass 


i 


MARY   IN   MAYFAIR.  417 

and  marsh  marigolds  into  the  ground,  and  drawing  deep  breath 
through  their  set  teeth.  A  slip,  a  false  foot-hold,  a  failing 
muscle,  and  it  would  be  over ;  down  they  must  go — who 
would  be  uppermost  ? 

The  poacher  trod  on  a  soft  place  and  Tom  felt  it,  and, 
throwing  himseK  forward,  was  reckoning  on  victory,  but 
reckoning  without  his  host.  For,  recovering  himself  with  a 
twist  of  the  body  which  brought  them  still  closer  together,  the 
poacher  locked  his  leg  behind  Tom's,  in  a  crook  which  brought 
the  wrestlings  of  his  boyhood  into  his  head  with  a  flash,  aa 
they  tottered  for  another  moment,  and  then  losing  balance 
went  headlong  over  with  a  heavy  plunge  and  splash  into  the 
deep  back  ditch,  locked  tight  in  each  other's  arms. 

The  cold  water  closed  over  them,  and  for  a  moment  Tom 
held  as  tight  as  ever.  Under  or  above  the  surface  it  was  all 
the  same,  he  couldn't  give  in  first.  But  a  gulp  of  water,  and 
the  singing  in  his  ears,  and  a  feeling  of  choking,  brought  hun 
to  his  senses,  helped,  too,  by  the  thought  of  his  mother,  and 
INIary,  and  love  of  the  pleasant  world  up  above.  The  folly 
and  uselessness  of  being  drowned  in  a  ditch  on  a  point  of 
honour  stood  out  before  him  as  clearly  as  if  he  had  beei; 
thinking  of  nothing  else  all  his  life  ;  and  he  let  go  his  hold — 
much  relieved  to  find  that  his  companion  of  the  bath  seemed 
equally  willing  to  be  quit  of  him. — and  struggled  to  the  surface, 
and  seized  the  bank,  gasping  and  exhausted. 

His  first  thought  was  to  turn  round  and  look  for  his  ad- 
versary. The  poacher  was  by  the  bank  too,  a  few  feet  from 
him.  His  cap  had  fallen  oif  in  the  struggle,  and,  all  chance 
of  concealment  being  over,  he  too  had  turned  to  face  the 
matter  out,  and  their  eyes  met. 

"  Good  God  !  Harry  !  is  it  you  V 

Harry  Winburn  answered  nothing  ;  and  the  two  dragged 
their  feet  out  of  the  soft  muddy  bottom,  and  scrambled  on  to 
the  bank,  and  then  with  a  sort  of  common  instinct  sat  down, 
dripping  and  foolish,  each  on  the  place  he  had  reached,  and 
looked  at  one  another.  Probably  two  more  thoroughly 
bewildered  lieges  of  her  INfajesty  were  not  at  that  moment 
facing  one  another  in  any  corner  of  the  United  Kingdom. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 

MARY    IN    MAYFAIR. 

On  the  night  which  our  hero  spent  by  the  side  of  the  river, 
with  the  results  detailed  in  the  last  chapter,  there  was  a  great 

E  K 


418  TOM    BEOWN    AT    OXi'OllI). 

ball  in  Brook-street,  Mayfair.  It  was  the  height  of  the  season, 
and,  of  course,  balls,  concerts,  and  parties  ot  all  kinds  were 
going  on  in  aU  parts  of  the  Great  Babylon,  but  the  entertain, 
uient  in  question  was  tlce  event  of  that  evening.  Persons 
behind  the  scenes  would  have  told  you  at  once,  had  you 
happened  to  meet  them,  and  eiuiuire  on  the  subject  during 
tlie  previous  ten  days,  that  Brook-street  was  the  place  in  which 
everybody  who  went  anywhere  ought  to  spend  some  hours 
between  eleven  and  three  on  this  [)articular  evening.  If  you 
did  not  happen  to  be  going  there,  you  had  better  stay  quietly 
at  your  club,  or  yoiu-  home,  and  not  speak  of  your  engagements 
for  that  night. 

A  great  awning  had  sprung  up  in  the  course  of  the  day 
over  the  pavement  in  front  of  the  door,  and  as  the  evening 
closed  in,  tired  lawyers  and  merchants,  on  their  return  from 
the  City,  and  the  riders  and  drivers  on  their  way  home  from 
the  Park,  might  have  seen  Holland's  men  laying  red  drugget 
over  the  pavement,  and  Gunter's  carts  coming  and  going, 
and  the  police  "  moving  on "  the  street-boys  and  servant- 
maids,  and  other  curious  members  of  the  masses,  who  paused 
to  stare  at  the  preparations. 

Then  came  the  lighting  up  of  the  rooms,  and  the  blaze  of 
pure  white  light  from  the  uncurtained  ballroom  windows 
spread  into  the  street,  and  the  nmsicians  passed  in  with  their 
instruments.  Then,  after  a  short  ])ause,  the  carriages  of  a 
few  intimate  friends,  who  came  early  at  the  hostess's  express 
desire,  began  to  drive  up,  and  the  Hansom  cabs  of  the  con- 
temporaries of  the  eldest  son,  from  which  issued  guardsmen 
and  Poreign-office  men,  and  other  dancing-youth  of  the  most 
approved  description.  Then  the  crowd  collected  again  round 
the  door — a  sadder  crowd  now  to  the  eye  of  any  one  who 
has  time  to  look  at  it ;  with  sallow,  haggard-looking  men 
here  and  there  on  the  skirts  of  it,  and  tawdry  women  joking 
and  pushing  to  the  front,  through  the  powdered  footmen, 
and  linkmen  in  red  waistcoats,  aheady  clamorous  and  redolent 
of  gin  and  beer,  and  scarcely  kept  back  by  the  half-dozen 
constables  of  the  A  division,  told  off  for  the  special  duty  of 
attending  and  keeping  order  on  so  important  an  occasion. 

Then  comes  a  rush  of  carriages,  and  by  eleven  o'clock  the 
Ime  stretches  away  half  round  Grosvenor  S([uare,  and  moves 
at  a  foot's-pace  towards  the  lights,  and  the  music,  and  the 
shouting  street.  In  the  middle  of  the  line  is  the  comfortable 
chariot  of  our  friend  Mr.  Porter — the  corners  occupied  by 
himself  and  his  wife,  while  Miss  Mary  sits  well  forward 
between  them,  her  white  muslin  dress  loopf-d  up  with  sprigs 
of  heather  spread  delicately  on  either  side  over  their  knees, 


MARY    IN    MAY  FAIR.  419 

and  herself  in  a  pleasant  tremor  of  impatience  and  excite- 
ment. 

"  How  very  slow  Eobert  is  to-day,  mamma  !  we  shall  never 
get  to  the  house." 

"  He  cannot  get  on  faster,  my  dear.  The  carriages  in  front 
of  us  must  set  down,  you  know." 

"  But  I  wish  they  would  be  quicker.  I  wonder  whether 
we  shall  know  many  people?  Do  you  think  I  shall  get 
partners ] " 

Not  waiting  for  her  mother's  reply,  she  went  on  to  name 
some  of  lier  acquaintance  who  she  knew  woidd  be  there,  and 
bewailing  the  hard  fate  which  was  keeping  her  out  of  tlie 
first  dances.  Mary's  excitement  and  imj)atience  were  natural 
enough.  The  ball  was -not  like  most  bulls.  It  was  a  great 
battle  in  the  midst  of  the  skirmishes  of  the  season,  and  she 
felt  the  greatness  of  the  occasion. 

Mr.  and  Mi-s.  Porter  had  for  years  past  dropped  into  a 
quiet  sort  of  dinner-giving  life,  in  which  they  saw  few  but 
their  own  friends  and  contemporaries.  They  generally  left 
London  before  the  season  was  at  its  height,  and  had  altogether 
fallen  out  of  the  ball-giving  and  party-going  world.  Mary's 
coming  out  had  changed  their  way  of  life.  For  her  sake 
they  hud  spent  the  winter  at  Rome,  and,  now  that  they  were 
at  home  again,  were  picking  up  the  threads  of  old  acquaint- 
ance, and  encountering  the  disagreeables  of  a  return  into 
habits  long  disused  and  almost  forgotten.  The  giver  of  the 
ball  was  a  stirring  man  in  political  life,  rich,  clever,  well- 
connected,  and  much  sought  after.  He  was  an  old  school- 
fellow of  Mr.  Porter's,  and  their  intimacy  had  never  been 
wholly  laid  aside,  no  withstanding  the  severance  of  their 
paths  in  Life.  Now  that  Mary  must  be  taken  out,  the  Brook- 
street  house  was  one  of  the  first  to  wluch  the  Porters  turnedj 
and  the  invitation  to  this  ball  was  one  of  the  first  conse. 
quences. 

K  the  truth  must  be  told,  neither  her  father  or  mother 
were  in  sympathy  with  Mary  as  they  gradually  neared  the 
place  of  setting  down,  and  would  far  rather  have  been  going 
to  a  much  less  imposing  place,  where  they  could  have  driven 
up  at  once  to  the  door,  and  would  not  have  been  made  un- 
comfortable by  the  shoutings  of  their  names  from  servant  to 
servant.  However,  after  the  first  plunge,  when  they  had 
made  their  bows  to  their  kind  and  smiling  hostess,  and  had 
passed  on  into  the  already  well-filled  roonis,  their  shyness 
began  to  wear  off,  and  they  could  in  some  sort  enjoy  the 
beauty  of  the  sight  from  a  quiet  corner.  They  were  not  long 
troubled  with  Miss  Mary.  Slie  had  not  been  in  the  ball- 
I£  K  2 


420  TOM   BROWN    AT    OXFOKD. 

room  two  minutes  before  tlie  eldest  son  of  the  house  had 
found  her  out  and  engaged  her  for  the  next  waltz.  They 
had  met  several  times  already,  and  were  on  the  best  terms  ; 
and  the  freshness  md  brightness  of  her  look  and  manner, 
and  the  evident  enjoyment  of  her  partner,  as  they  laughed 
and  talked  together  in  the  intervals  of  the  dance,  soon  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  young  men,  who  began  to  ask 
one  another,  "  Who  is  Norman  dancing  with?"  and  to  ejacu- 
late with  various  strength,  according  to  their  several  tempera- 
ments, as  to  her  face,  and  figure,  and  dress. 

As  they  were  returning  towards  Mrs.  Porter,  Norman  was 
pulled  by  the  sleeve  more  than  once,  and  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  introduce  first  one  and  then  another  of  his  friends. 

Mary  gave  herself  up  to  the  fascination  of  the  scene.  She 
had  never  been  in  rooms  so  perfectly  lighted,  with  such  a 
floor,  such  exquisite  music,  and  sc  many  pretty  and  well-bred 
looking  people,  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  enjoy  it  with  all 
her  heart  and  soul,  and  danced  and  laughed  and  talked  her- 
self into  the  good  graces  of  partner  after  partner,  till  she 
began  to  attract  the  notice  of  some  of  the  ill-natured  people 
who  are  to  be  found  in  every  room,  and  who  cannot  pardon 
the  pure,  and  buoyant,  and  unsuspecting  mhth  which  carries 
away  all  but  themselves  in  its  bright  stream.  So  Mary 
passed  on  from  one  partner  to  another,  with  whom  we  have 
no  concern,  until  at  last  a  young  lieutenant  in  the  guards, 
who  had  just  finished  his  second  dance  with  her,  led  up  a 
friend  whom  he  bogged  to  introduce.  "  Miss  Porter — Mr. 
St.  Cloud;"  and  then,  after  the  usual  preliminaries,  Mary 
left  her  mother's  side  again  and  stood  up  by  the  side  of  her 
new  partner. 

"  It  is  your  first  season  I  believe,  Miss  Porter  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  first  in  London." 

*'  I  thought  so  ;  and  you  have  only  just  come  to  town  V 

"  We  came  back  from  Rome  six  weeks  ago,  and  have  been 
in  town  ever  since." 

"  But  I  am  sure  I  have  not  seen  you  anywhere  this  season 
until  to-night.     You  have  not  been  out  much  yef?" 

"  Yes,  indeed.  Papa  and  mamma  are  very  good-natured, 
and  go  whenever  we  are  asked  to  a  ball,  as  I  am  fond  of 
dancing." 

"  How  very  odd  !  and  yet  I  am  quite  sure  I  should  have 
remembered  it  if  we  had  met  before  in  town  this  year." 

"  Is  it  so  very  odd  1 "  asked  Mary,  laughing  :  "  London  is 
a  very  large  place.  It  seems  very  natural  that  two  people 
should  be  able  to  live  in  it  for  a  long  time  without  meeting." 

"  Indeed,  you  are  quite  mistaken.     You  will  find  out  very 


MARY    IN    MAYFAIR.  421 

soon  hoyi  sniall  London  is — at  least  how  small  society  is  ; 
and  you  will  get  to  know  every  face  quite  well — I  mean  the 
face  of  every  one  in  society." 

"You  must  have  a  wonderful  memory  !" 

"Yes,  1  have  a  good  memory  for  faces,  and,  by  the  way,  I 
am  sure  I  have  seen  you  before  ;  but  not  in  town,  and  I 
cannot  remember  Avhere.  But  it  is  not  at  all  necessary  to  have 
a  memory  to  know  everybody  in  society  by  sight ;  you  meet 
every  night  almost ;  and  altogether  there  are  only  two  or 
three  hundred  faces  to  remember.  And  then  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  look  of  people,  and  the  way  they  come  into  a 
loom  or  stand  about,  which  tells  you  at  once  whether  tliey 
are  amongst  those  whom  you  need  trouble  yourself  about." 

**  Well,  I  cannot  understand  it.  I  seem  to  be  in  a  whirl 
of  faces,  and  can  hardly  ever  remember  any  of  them." 

"  You  will  soon  get  used  to  it.  By  the  end  of  the  season 
you  will  see  that  I  am  right.  And  you  ought  to  make  a 
study  of  it,  or  you  will  never  feel  at  hom.e  in  London." 

"  I  must  make  good  use  of  my  time  then.  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  know  everybody  here,  for  instance  1 " 

"  Almost  everybody." 

"  And  I  really  do  not  know  the  names  of  a  dozen  people." 

"  Will  you  let  me  give  you  a  lesson  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  shall  be  much  obliged." 

"  Then  let  us  stand  here,  and  we  will  take  them  as  they 
pass  to  the  supper-room." 

So  they  stood  near  the  door-way  of  the  ball-room,  and  he 
ran  on,  exchanging  constant  nods  and  remarks  with  the 
passers-by,  as  the  stream  flowed  to  and  from  the  ices  and 
cup,  and  then  rattling  on  to  his  partner  with  the  names  and 
short  sketches  of  the  characters  and  peculiarities  of  his  large 
acquaintance.  Mary  was  very  much  amused,  and  had  no 
time  to  notice  the  ill-nature  of  most  of  his  remarks  ;  and  he 
had  the  wit  to  keep  within  what  he  considered  the  most  inno- 
cent bounds. 

"  There,  you  know  him  of  course,"  he  said,  as  an  elderly 
soldier-like  looking  man  with  a  star  passed  them. 

"  Yes  ;  at  least,  I  mean  I  know  him  by  sight.  I  saw  him 
at  the  Commemoration  at  Oxford  last  year.  They  gave  him 
an  honorary  degree  on  his  return  from  India." 

"  At  Oxford  !  Were  you  at  the  Grand  Commemoration, 
then  ?" 

"  Yes.  The  Commemoration  Ball  was  the  first  public  ball 
I  was  ever  at." 

"  Ah  !  that  explains  it  all.  I  must  have  seen  you  there. 
I  told  you  we  had  met  before.     I  was  perfectly  sure  of  it." 


422  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFOI^^i 

"  What  !   were  yon  there,  tl)en  1" 

"  Yes.  I  had  the  honour  of  being  present  at  your  first 
ball,  you  see." 

"  But  how  curious  that  you  should  remember  me  !" 

"  Do  you  really  tliiidt  so  1  Surelj'  there  are  some  faces 
which,  once  seen,  one  can  never  forget." 

"  T  am  so  glad  that  you  know  dear  Oxford." 

"  I  know  it  too  well,  perhaps,  to  share  your  enthusiasm." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  spent  nearly  three  years  there." 

"What,  were  you  at  Oxford  last  year?" 

"Yes.  I  left  before  Conimrmoration  :  hut  T  went  up  for 
the  gaieties,  and  I  am  glad  of  it,  as  I  shall  have  one  pleasant 
memory  of  the  place  now." 

"  Oh,  I  wonder  you  dou't  love  it  !  But  what  college  were 
you  of  ? " 

"Why,  you  talk  like  a  graduate.      I  was  of  St.  Airibrose." 

"  St.  Ambrose  !     That  is  my  college  !" 

"  Indeed  !  I  wish  we  had  been  in  residence  at  the  same 
time." 

"  I  mean  that  we  almost  lived  tliere  at  the  Commemora- 
tion." 

"  Have  you  any  relation  fcherCj  then  V 

"  No,  not  a  relation,  only  a  distant  connexion," 

"May  I  ask  his  namer' 

"  Brown.     Did  you  know  him  ?" 

"Yes.  We  were  not  in  the  same  set.  He  was  a  boating 
man,  I  think?" 

She  felt  that  he  was  watching  her  narrowly  now,  and  had 
great  difficulty  in  keeping  herself  reasonalily  composed.  As 
it  was  she  could  not  help  showing  a  little  that  she  felt  em- 
barrassed, and  looked  down  ;  and  changed  colour  slightly, 
busying  herself  with  her  bouquet.  She  longed  to  continue 
the  conversation,  but  somehow  the  manner  of  her  partner 
ke|)t  her  from  doing  so.  She  resolved  to  recur  to  the  su1>joct 
carelessly,  if  they  met  again,  when  she  knew  him  better. 
The  fact  of  his  having  been  at  St.  Ambrose  made  her  wish  to 
know  hiin  better,  and  gave  him  a  good  start  in  lier  favour. 
But  for  the  moment  she  felt  that  she  must  change  the  siibject; 
fco,  looking  up,  she  fixed  on  the  first  people  who  happened  to 
be  passing,  and  asked  who  they  were. 

"  Oh,  nobody,  constituents  probably,  or  something  of  that 
sort." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"Why,  3'ou  see,  we  are  in  a  political  house  to-night.  So 
you  may  set  down  the  people  whom  nobody  knows,  as  trouble- 


I 


MARY    IN   MAYFATll.  423 

Fome  ten-pounders,  or  that  kind  of  thing,  who  wonhl  be  dis- 
agi'eeable  at  the  next  election,  if  tliey  were  not  asked." 

"Then  you  do  not  include  them  in  society  ?" 

"  By  no  manner  of  means." 

"  And  I  need  not  take  the  trouble  to  remember  their 
faces?" 

"  Of  course  not.  There  is  a  sediment  of  rubbish  at  almost 
every  house.  At  the  jiarties  here  it  is  political  rubljish.  To- 
morrow night,  at  Lady  Aubrey's — you  will  be  there,  I  hope?" 

"No,  we  do  not  know  her." 

"I  am  sorry  for  that.  Well,  there  we  shall  have  the 
scientific  rubbish  ;  and  at  other  houses  you  see  queer  artists, 
and  writing  people.  In  fact,  it  is  the  rarest  thing  in  the 
world  to  get  a  party  where  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind,  and, 
after  all,  it  is  rather  amusing  to  watch  the  habits  of  the 
different  species." 

"\Vell,  to  me  the  rubbish,  as  you  call  it,  seems  much  like 
the  rest.     I  am  sure  those  people  were  ladies  and  gentlemen." 

"Very  likely,"  he  said,  lifting  his  eyebrows;  "but  you 
may  see  at  a  glance  that  they  have  not  the  air  of  society. 
Here  again,  look  yourself.  You  can  see  that  these  are  con- 
stituents." 

To  the  horror  of  St.  Cloud,  the  advancing  constituents 
made  straight  for  his  partner. 

"Mary,  my  dear!"  exclaimed  the  lady,  "where  have  you 
been  1     We  have  lost  you  ever  since  the  last  dance." 

"  I  have  been  standing  here,  mamma,"  she  said  ;  and  then, 
slipping  from  her  late  partner's  arm,  she  made  a  demure  little 
bow,  and  passed  into  the  ball-room  with  her  father  and 
mother. 

St.  Cloud  bit  his  lip,  and  swore  at  himself  under  his  breatli 
as  he  looked  after  them.  "What  an  infernal  idiot  I  must 
liave  been  not  to  know  that  her  people  would  be  sure  to  tuiii 
out  something  of  that  sort !"  thought  he.  "  By  Jove,  I'll  go 
after  them,  and  set  myself  right  before  the  little  minx  has  time 
to  think  it  over  !"  He  took  a  step  or  two  towards  the  Itall- 
roora,  but  then  thought  better  of  it,  or  his  courage  failed 
him.  At  any  rate,  he  turned  I'ound  again,  and  sought  the 
refreshment-room,  where  he  joined  a  knot  of  young  gentlemen 
indulging  in  delicate  little  raised  pies  and  salads,  and  liberal 
potations  of  iced  claret  or  champagne  cup.  Amongst  them 
was  the  guardsman  who  had  introduced  him  to  Mary,  and 
who  received  him,  as  he  came  up,  Avith — 

"  Well,  St.  Cloud,  I  hope  you  are  alive  to  your  obligations 
to  me." 

"  For  shiaiting  your  late  partner  on  to  me  1     Yes,  quite." 


424  TOxM    BKOWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"You  be  hanged!"  replied  the  guardsman;  *  you  may 
pretend  what  you  please  now,  but  you  wouldn't  let  me  alone 
till  I  had  introduced  you." 

"  Are  you  talking  about  the  girl  in  white  muslin  with  fern 
leaves  in  her  hair  1"  asked  another. 

"Yes,  what  do  you  think  of  her?" 

"  Devilish  taking,  I  think.  1  say,  can't  you  introduce  me  1 
They  say  she  has  tin." 

"  I  can't  say  I  think  much  of  her  looks,"  said  St.  Cloud, 
acting  up  to  his  principle  of  telling  a  lie  sooner  than  let  his 
real  thoughts  be  seen. 

"Don't  you?"  said  the  guardsman,  "Well,  I  like  her 
form  better  than  anything  out  this  year.  Such  a  clean 
stepper  !     You  should  just  dance  with  her." 

And  so  they  went  on  criticizing  Mary  and  others  of  their 
partners,  exactly  as  they  would  have  talked  of  a  stud  of  racers, 
till  they  found  themselves  sufficiently  refreshed  to  encounter 
new  labours,  and  broke  up  returning  in  twos  and  tlirees  to- 
wards the  baU-room. 

St.  Cloud  attached  himself  to  the  guardsman,  and  returned 
to  the  charge. 

"  You  seem  hit  by  that  girl,"  he  began  ;— r"  have  you  known 
her  long?" 

"  About  a  week — I  met  her  once  before  to-night." 

"  Do  you  know  her  people  1     Who  is  her  father  1 " 

"  A  plain-headed  old  party — you  wouldn't  think  it  to  look 
at  her — but  I  hear  he  is  very  solvent." 

"Any  sons'?" 

"  Don't  know.  I  like  yoiir  talking  of  my  being  hit,  St. 
Cloud.     There  she  is  ;  I  shall  go  and  try  for  another  waltz." 

The  guardsman  was  successfid,  and  carried  ofi"  Mary  from 
her  father  and  mother,  who  were  standing  together  watching 
the  dancing.  St.  Cloud,  after  looking  them  well  over,  sought 
out  the  hostess,  and  begged  to  be  introduced  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Porter,  gleaning,  at  the  same  time,  some  particulars  of  who 
they  were.  The  introduction  was  effected  in  a  minute,  the 
lady  of  the  house  being  glad  to  get  any  one  to  talk  to  the 
Porters,  who  were  almost  strangers  amongst  her  other  guests. 
She  managed,  before  leaving  them,  to  whisper  to  Mrs.  Porter 
that  he  was  a  young  man  of  excellent  connexions. 

St.  Cloud  made  the  most  of  his  time.  He  exerted  himself 
to  the  utmost  to  please,  and,  being  fluent  of  speech,  and 
thoroughly  satisfied  with  himself,  had  no  shyness  or  awkward- 
ness to  get  over,  and  jumped  at  once  into  the  good  graces  of 
Mary's  parents.  When  she  returned  after  the  waltz,  she 
found  him,  to  her  nu  small  astonishment,  deep  in  conversu- 


MARY  m   MAYFAIE.  425 

tion  witli  her  mother,  who  was  listening  with  a  pleased  exj  ires- 
sion  to  his  small  talk.  He  pretended  not  to  see  her  at  hrst, 
and  then  begged  Mrs.  Porter  to  introduce  liim  formally  to 
her  daughter,  though  he  had  already  had  the  honour  of 
dancing  with  her. 

Maiy  put  on  her  shortest  and  coldest  manner,  and  thought 
she  had  never  heard  of  such  impertinence.  That  he  should 
be  there  talking  so  familiarly  to  her  mother  after  the  slip  he 
had  made  to  her  was  almost  too  much  '^•ven  for  her  temper. 
But  she  went  off  for  another  dance,  ar.l  .ifc,h'n  returned  and 
found  him  still  there ;  this  time  entertaining  Mr.  Porter  with 
pohtical  gossip.  The  unfavourable  impression  began  to  wear 
oif,  and  she  soon  resolved  not  to  make  up  her  mind  about 
him  without  some  further  knowledge. 

In  due  course  he  asked  her  to  dance  again,  and  they  stood 
up  in  a  quadrille.  She  stood  by  him  looking  straight  before 
her,  and  perfectly  silent,  wondering  how  he  would  open  the 
conversation.     He  did  not  leave  her  long  in  suspense. 

"  What  charming  people  your  father  and  mother  are,  Miss 
Porter  ! "  he  said  ;  "  I  am  so  glad  to  have  been  introduced  to 
them." 

"  Indeed  !  You  are  very  kind.  We  ought  to  be  flattered 
by  your  study  of  us,  and  I  am  sure  I  hope  you  will  hnd  it 
amusing." 

St.  Cloud  was  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  rejoinder,  and 
was  not  sorry  at  the  moment  to  find  himself  called  upon  to 
perform  the  second  figure.  By  the  time  he  was  at  her  side 
again  he  had  recovered  himself. 

"  You  can't  understand  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  meet  some 
one  with  a  little  freshness" — he  paused  to  think  how  he 
should  end  his  sentence. 

"  "Wlio  has  not  the  air  of  society,"  she  suggested.  Yes,  I 
quite  understand." 

"  Indeed,  you  quite  mistake  me.  Surely,  you  have  not 
taken  seriously  the  nonsense  I  was  talking  just  now  ?" 

"  I  am  a  constituent,  you  know — I  don't  understand  how 
to  take  the  talk  of  society." 

"  Oh,  I  see,  then,  that  you  are  angry  at  my  joke,  and  will 
not  believe  that  I  knew  your  father  perfectly  by  sight.  You 
really  cannot  seriously  fancy  that  I  was  alluding  to  any  one 
connected  with  you  ; "  and  then  he  proceeded  to  retail  the 
particulars  he  had  picked  up  from  the  lady  of  thb  house,  as 
if  they  had  been  familiar  to  him  for  years,  and  to  launch  out 
again  into  praises  of  her  father  and  mother.  Mary  looked 
straight  up  in  his  face,  and,  though  he  did  not  meet  her  eye, 
his  manrer  was  so  composed,  that  she  began  to  doubt  her 


42(5  TOM    BEOWN   AT    OXFORD. 

own  senses,  and  then  he  suddenly  changed  the  snhjcct  to 
Oxford  and  the  Commemoration,  and  by  the  end  of  the  set 
conld  flatter  himself  that  he  had  quite  dispelled  the  cloud 
which  had  looked  so  threatening, 

Mary  had  a  great  success  that  evening.  She  danced  every 
dance,  and  might  have  had  two  or  three  partners  at  once,  if 
they  would  have  been  of  any  use  to  her.  When,  at  last, 
!RIr.  Porter  insisted  that  he  would  keep  his  horses  no  longer, 
St.  Cloud  and  the  guardsman  accompanied  her  to  the  dooi', 
and  were  assiduous  in  the  cloak-room.  Young  men  are  pretty 
much  like  a  drove  of  sheep;  any  one  who  takes  a  decided 
line  on  certain  matters,  is  sure  to  lead  all  the  rest.  The 
guardsman  left  the  ball  in  the  firm  belief,  as  he  himself  ex- 
pressed it,  that  Mary  "had  done  his  business  for  life;"  and, 
being  quite  above  concealment,  persisted  in  singing  her 
praises  over  his  cigar  at  the  club,  to  which  many  of  the 
dancers  adjourned  ;  and  from  that  night  she  became  the 
fashion  with  the  set  in  whi(^h  St.  Cloud  lived.  The  more 
enterjirising  of  them,  he  amongst  the  foremost,  were  soon 
intimate  in  Mr.  Porter's  house,  and  spoke  well  of  his  dinners. 
Mr.  Porter  changed  his  hour  of  riding  in  the  park  at  their 
suggestion,  and  now  he  and  his  daughter  were  always  sure  of 
companions.  Invitations  multiplied,  for  Mary's  success  was 
so  decided,  that  she  floated  her  astonished  parents  into  a 
whirl  of  balls  and  breakfasts.  Mr.  Porter  and  his  wife 
were  flattered  themselves,  and  pleased  to  see  their  daughter 
admired  and  enjoying  herself;  and  in  the  next  six  weeks 
IVIary  had  the  opportunity  of  getting  all  the  good  and  the 
bad  which  a  girl  of  eighteen  can  extract  from  a  London 
season. 

The  test  was  a  severe  one.  Two  months  of  constant  ex- 
citement, of  pleasure-seeking  pure  and  simple,  M'ill  not  leave 
people  just  as  they  found  them  ;  and  IVIary's  habits,  and 
thoughts,  and  ways  of  looking  at  and  judging  of  people  and 
things,  were  much  changed  by  the  time  that  the  gay  world 
melted  away  from  Mayfair  and  Belgravia,  and  it  was  time 
for  all  respectable  people  to  pull  down  the  blinds  and  shut 
the  shutters  of  their  town  houses. 


CHAPTER  XXXTX. 

WHAT   CAME    OF    THE   NIGHT-WATCH. 

The  last  knot  of  the  dancers  came  out  of  the  club,  and 
were  strolling  up  St.  James's  Street,  and  stopping  to  chaff  the 
itinerant  coffee  vendor,  who  was  preparing  his  stand  at  the 


WHAT   CAI^rE    OF   THE   NTGFT-WATCH.  427 

corner  of  Piccadilly  for  his  early  ciiFtomers,  just  about  the 
time  that  Tom  was  beginning  to  rouse  himself  under  tlie 
alder-tree,  and  stretch  his  sti  Honed  limbs,  and  sniff  the  morn- 
ing air.  By  the  time  the  guai'dsman  had  let  himself  into 
his  lodgings  in  !Mount  Street,  our  hero  had  undergone  his 
~unlonked  for  bath,  and  was  sitting  in  a  state  of  i;tter  be- 
wilderment as  to  Avhat  was  next  to  be  said  or  done,  drijiping 
and  disconcerted,  opposite  to  the  equally  dripping,  and,  to 
all  appearance,  equallj'  disconcerted,  poaclier. 

At  first  he  did  not  look  higher  than  his  antagonist's  boots 
and  gaiters,  and  spent  a  few  seconds  by  the  way  in  consider- 
ing whether  the  arrangement  of  nails  on  the  bottom  of 
Harry's  boots  was  better  than  his  own.  He  settled  that  it 
must  be  better  for  wading  on  slippery  stones,  and  that  he 
would  adopt  it,  and  then  passed  on  to  wonder  whether 
Harry's  boots  were  as  full  of  water  as  his  own,  and  whether 
corduroys,  wet  through,  must  not  be  very  uncomfortable  so 
early  in  the  morning,  and  congratulated  himself  on  being  in 
flannels. 

And  so  he  hung  back  for  second  after  second,  playing  with 
any  absurd  little  thought  that  would  come  into  his  head  and 
give  him  ever  so  brief  a  respite  from  the  effort  of  facing  the 
situation,  and  hoping  that  Harry  might  do  or  say  something 
to  open  the  ball.  This  did  not  happen.  He  felt  that  the 
longer  he  waited  the  harder  it  Avould  be.  He  must  begin 
himself.  So  he  raised  his  head  gently,  and  took  a  sidelong 
look  at  Harry's  face,  to  see  whether  he  could  not  get  some 
hint  for  starting,  from  it.  But  scarcely  had  he  brought  his 
eyes  to  bear,  when  they  met  Harry's,  peering  dolefully  up 
from  under  his  eyebrows,  on  which  the  water  was  standing 
unAvijjed,  while  a  piece  of  green  weed,  which  he  did  not  seem 
to  have  presence  of  mind  enough  to  remove,  trailed  over  his 
dripping  locks.  There  was  something  in  the  sight  which 
tickled  Tom's  sense  of  humour.  He  had  been  prepared  for 
sullen  black  looks  and  fierce  words ;  instead  of  which  he  was 
irresistibly  reminded  of  schoolboys  caught  by  their  master 
using  a  crib,  or  in  other  like  flagrant  delict. 

Harry  lowered  his  eyes  at  once,  but  lifted  them  the  next 
moment  with  a  look  of  surprise,  as  he  heard  Tom  burst  into 
a  hearty  fit  of  laughter.  After  a  short  struggle  to  keep 
serious,  he  joined  in  it  himself. 

"  By  Jove,  though,  Harry,  it's  no  laughing  matter,"  Tom 
said  at  last,  getting  on  to  his  legs,  and  giving  himself  a  shake, 

Harry  only  replied  by  looking  most  doleful  again,  and 
picking  the  weed  out  of  his  hair,  as  he  too  got  up. 

"  Wliat  in  the  world's  to  be  done  ? " 


423  TOM    CEOWN   AT    OXFORD. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Master  Toln.' 

"  I'm  very  much  surprised  to  find  you  at  this  woik, 
Harry." 

"  I'm  sure,  so  be  I,  to  find  you,  blaster  Tom." 

Tom  was  not  prepared  for  this  line  of  rejoinder.  It  seemed 
to  be  made  with  perfect  innocence,  and  yet  it  put  him  in  a 
corner  at  once.  He  did  not  care  to  inquire  into  the  reason 
of  Harry's  surprise,  or  to  what  work  he  alluded  ;  so  he  went 
off  on  another  tack. 

"  Let  us  walk  up  and  down  a  bit  to  dry  ourselves.  Now, 
Harry,  you'll  speak  to  me  openly,  man  to  man,  as  an  old 
friend  should — won't  you  1 " 

"Ay,  Master  Tom,  and  glad  to  do  it." 

"  How  long  have  you  taken  to  poaching  1 " 

"  Since  last  Micliaelmas,  when  they  turned  me  out  o'  our 
cottage,  and  tuk  away  my  bit  o'  land,  and  did  aU  as  they 
could  to  break  me  down." 

"  "VVho  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  Squire  Wurley  as  was  then — not  this  one,  but  the 
last — and  his  lawyer,  and  Farmer  Tester." 

"  Then  it  was  through  spite  to  them  that  you  took  to 
it?" 

"  Nay,  'twarn't  altogether  spite,  tho'  I  won't  say  but  what 
I  might  ha'  thought  o'  bein'  upsides  wi'  them," 

"What  was  it  then  besides  spite?" 

"  Want  o'  work.  I  haven't  had  no  more  'n  a  matter  o'  six 
weeks'  reg'lar  work  ever  since  last  fall." 

"  How's  that  1     Have  you  tried  for  it  1 " 

"  Well,  Master  Tom,  I  won't  teU  a  lie  about  it.  I  don't 
see  as  I  wur  bound  to  go  round  wi'  my  cap  m  my  hand  a 
beggin'  for  a  day's  work  to  the  likes  o'  them.  They  knowed 
well  enough  as  I  wur  there,  ready  and  willing  to  work,  and 
they  knowed  as  I  wur  able  to  ilo  as  good  a  day's  work  as  e'er 
a  man  in  the  parish  ;  and  ther's  been  plenty  o'  work  goin'. 
But  they  thought  as  I  should  starve,  and  have  to  come  and 
beg  for't  from  one  or  to'tlier  on  'em.  They  would  ha'  liked 
to  ha'  seen  me  clean  broke  down,  that's  wut  they  would,  and 
in  the  house,"  and  he  paused  as  if  his  thoughts  were  getting 
a  little  unmanageable. 

"But  you  might  have  gone  to  look  for  work  else- 
where." 

"  I  can't  see  as  I  had  any  call  to  leave  the  place  where  I 
wur  bred  up.  Master  Tom.  That  wur  just  wut  they  wanted. 
Why  should  I  let  'em  drive  m'out  1 " 

"  Well,  Harry,  I'm  not  going  to  blame  you.  I  only  want 
to  know  more  about  what  has  been  happening  to  you,  that  I 


WHAT   CA]ME   OF   THE   NIGHT-WATCH.  429 

iraT  be  able  tc  advise  and  help  you.     Did  you  ever  try  for 
■work,  or  go  and  tell  your  story,  at  the  Rectory  ? " 

"  Try  for  work  there  !  No,  I  never  went  arter  work 
there." 

Tom  went  on  without  noticing  the  change  in  Harry's  tone 
tind  manner — 

"Then  I  think  you  ought  to  have  gone.  I  know  my 
cousin,  Miss  Winter,  is  so  anxious  to  help  any  man  out  of 
work,  and  particularly  you  ;  for — "  The  whole  story  of 
Patty  flashed  into  his  mind,  and  made  him  stop  short,  and 
stammer,  and  look  anywhere  except  at  Harry.  How  he  could 
have  forgotten  it  for  a  moment  in  that  company  was  a  wonder. 
All  his  questioning  and  patronizing  powers  went  out  of  him, 
and  he  felt  that  their  positions  were  changed,  and  that  he 
was  the  culprit.  It  was  clear  that  Harry  knew  nothing  yet 
of  his  own  relations  with  Patty.  Did  he  even  suspect  them  ? 
It  must  all  come  out  now  at  any  rate,  for  both  their  sakes, 
however  it  might  end.  So  he  turned  again,  and  met  Harry's 
eye,  which  was  now  cold  and  keen,  and  suspicious. 

"  You  knows  all  about  it,  then  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  I  know  that  you  have  been  attached  to  Simon's 
daughter  for  a  long  time,  and  that  he  is  against  it  I  wish  I 
could  help  you,  with  all  my  heart.  In  fact,  I  did  feel  my 
way  towards  speaking  to  him  about  it  last  year,  when  I  was 
in  hopes  of  getting  you  the  gardener's  place  there.  But  I 
could  see  that  I  should  do  no  good." 

"  I've  heard  say  as  you  was  acquainted  with  lier,  when  she 
was  away  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  was,  when  she  was  with  her  aunt  in  Oxford. 
What  then?" 

"  'Twas  there  as  she  larnt  her  bad  ways." 

"  Bad  ways  !     What  do  you  mean  1 " 

**  I  means  as  she  larnt  to  dress  fine,  and  to  gee  herself  airs 
to  them  as  she'd  known  from  a  child,  and  as'd  ha'  gone 
through  fire  to  please  her." 

"  I  never  saw  anything  of  the  kind  in  her.  She  was  a 
pleasant,  lively  girl,  and  dressed  neatly,  but  never  above  lier 
station.  And  I'm  sure  she  has  too  good  a  heart  to  hurt  an 
old  friend." 

'*  Wut  made  her  keep  shut  up  in  the  house  when  she  cum 
back  1  ah,  for  days  and  weeks ; — and  arter  that,  wut  made 
her  so  flighty  and  fickle  1  carryin'  of  herself  as  proud  as  a 
lady,  a  mincin'  and  a  trapesrn'  along,  wi'  all  the  young  farmers 
a  follerin'  her,  like  a  fine  gentleman's  miss." 

"  Come,  Harry,  I  won't  listen  to  that.  You  don't  believe 
wliat  you're  saying,  you  know  her  better." 


430  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"  You  knows  her  well  enough  by  all  seeming." 

"  I  know  her  too  well  to  believe  any  harm  of  her." 

"  What  call  have  you  and  the  likes  o'  you  wi'  her  1  'Tia 
no  good  comes  o'  such  company  keepin'." 

"  I  tell  you  again,  no  harm  has  come  of  it  to  her." 

"  Whose  hair  doe^s  she  carry  about  then  in  that  gold  thing 
as  she  hangs  round  her  neck  i  " 

Tom  blushed  scarlet,  and  lowered  his  eyes  without  answer- 
ing. 

"Dost  know]     'Tis  thine,  by  ."     The  words   came 

hissing  out  between  his  set  teeth.  Tom  put  his  hands 
behind  him,  expecting  to  be  struck,  as  he  lifted  his  eyes,  and 
said, — 

"  Yes,  it  is  mine ;  and,  I  tell  you  again,  no  harm  has  come 
of  it." 

"  'Tis  a  lie.  I  knowed  how  'twas,  and  'tis  thou  hast  done 
it." 

Tom's  blood  tingled  in  his  veins,  and  wild  words  rushed 
to  his  tongue,  as  he  stood  opposite  the  man  who  had  just 
given  him  the  lie,  and  who  waited  his  reply  with  clenched 
hands,  and  labouring  breast,  and  fierce  eye.  But  the  disci- 
pline of  the  last  year  stood  him  in  good  stead.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  or  two  crushing  his  hands  together  behind  his 
back,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  answered, — 

"  Will  you  believe  my  oath  then  1  I  stood  by  your  side 
at  your  mother's  grave.  A  man  who  did  that  won't  lie  to 
you,  Harry.  I  swear  to  you  there's  no  wrong  between  me 
and  her.  There  never  was  fault  on  her  side.  I  sought  her. 
She  never  cared  for  me,  she  doesn't  care  for  me.  As  for  that 
locket,  I  forced  it  on  her.  I  own  I  have  wronged  her,  and 
wronged  you.  I  have  repented  it  bitterly.  I  ask  your  for- 
giveness, Harry ;  for  the  sake  of  old  times,  for  the  sake  of 
your  mother  ! "  He  spoke  from  the  heart,  and  saw  that  his 
words  went  home.  "  Come,  Harry,"  he  went  on,  "  you  won't 
turn  from  an  old  playfellow,  who  owns  the  wrong  he  has 
done,  and  will  do  all  he  can  to  make  up  for  it.  You'll  shake 
hands,  and  say  you  forgive  me." 

Tom  paused,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

The  poacher's  face  worked  violently  for  a  moment  or  two, 
and  he  seemed  to  stx'Uggle  once  or  twice  to  get  liis  hand  out 
in  vain.  At  last  he  struck  it  suddenly  into  Tom's,  turning 
his  head  away  at  the  same  time.  "  'Tis  what  mother  would 
ha'  done,"  he  said,  "  thou  cassn't  say  more.  There  'tis  then, 
though  I  never  thought  to  do't." 

The  curious  and  unexpected  explanation,  brought  thus  to 
a  happy  issue,  put  Tom  into  high  spirits,  and  at  once  roused 


'  Tis  a  lie.     I  knnved  how  'i2vas,  ana  'iis  thou  hast  done  it."      P.  430. 


WHAT    C.VjVIE    of   THE   NIGHT-WATCH.  4:31 

the  oastle-building  power  within  him,  which  was  always 
ready  enough  to  wake  up. 

His  first  care  was  to  persuade  Harry  that  he  had  better 
give  up  poacliing,  and  in  this  he  had  much  less  difficulty 
than  he  expected.  Harry  owned  himself  sick  of  the  life  he 
was  leading  already.  He  admitted  that  some  of  the  men 
with  whom  he  had  been  associating  more  or  less  for  the  last 
year  were  the  greatest  blackguards  in  the  neighbourhood. 
He  asked  nothing  better  than  to  get  out  of  it.     But  how  1 

This  was  all  Tom  wanted.  He  would  see  to  that;  nothing 
could  be  easier. 

"  I  shall  go  with  you  back  to  Englebourn  this  morning. 
I'll  just  leave  a  note  for  Wurley  to  say  that  I'll  be  back  some 
time  in  the  day  to  explain  matters  to  him,  and  then  we  will 
be  off  at  once.  We  shall  be  at  the  rectory  by  breakfast  time. 
Ah,  I  forgot ; — well,  you  can  stop  at  David's  while  I  go  and 
speak  to  my  uncle  and  to  Miss  Winter." 

Harry  didn't  seem  to  see  what  would  be  the  good  of  this  ; 
and  David,  he  said,  was  not  so  friendly  to  him  as  he  had 
been. 

"  Then  you  must  wait  at  the  Eed  Lion.  Don't  see  the 
good  of  it !  Why,  of  course,  the  good  of  it  is  that  you  must 
be  set  right  with  the  Englebourn  people — that's  the  first 
thing  to  do.  I  shall  explain  how  the  case  stands  to  my  uncle, 
and  I  know  that  I  can  get  him  to  let  you  have  your  land 
again  if  you  stay  in  the  parish,  even  if  he  can't  give  you 
Avork  himself.  But  what  he  must  do  is,  to  take  you  up,  to 
show  people  that  he  is  your  friend,  Harry.  Well  then,  if 
you  can  get  good  work — mind  it  must  be  real,  good,  regular 
work — at  farmer  Grove's,  or  one  of  the  best  farmers,  stop 
here  by  all  means,  and  I  will  take  myseK  the  first  cottage 
which  falls  vacant  and  let  you  have  it,  and  meantime  you 
must  lodge  with  old  David.  Oh,  I'll  go  and  talk  him  round, 
never  fear.  But  if  you  can't  get  regular  work  here,  why  you 
go  ofi"  with  flying  colours  ;  no  sneaking  ofi"  under  a  cloud 
and  leaving  no  address.  You'll  go  ofi"  with  me,  as  my  servant, 
if  you  like.  But  just  as  you  please  about  that.  At  any  rate, 
you'll  go  with  me,  and  I'll  take  care  that  it  shall  be  known 
that  I  consider  you  as  an  old  fricnil.  My  father  has  always 
got  plenty  of  work  and  will  take  you  on.  And  then,  Harry, 
after  a  bit  you  may  be  siue  all  will  go  right,  and  I  shall  be 
your  best  man,  and  dance  at  your  wedding  before  a  year's 
out." 

There  is  something  in  this  kind  of  thing  which  is  contagi- 
ous and  irresistible.  Tom  thoroughly  believed  all  that  he 
was  saying ;  and  faith,  even  of  such  a  ^or  kind  as  believing 


4?.2  TOM   BKOWN  AT   OXTOED. 

in  one's  own  oastlos,  has  its  reward.  Coinmon  sense  in  vain 
suggested  to  Harry  that  all  the  clouds  which  had  heen  gather- 
ing round  him  for  a  year  were  not  likely  to  melt  away  in  a 
morning.  Prudence  suggested  that  the  sooner  he  got  away 
the  better  ;  which  suggestion,  indeed,  he  handed  on  for  what 
it  was  worth.  But  Tom  treated  prudence  with  sublime 
contempt.  They  would  go  together,  he  said,  as  soon  as  any 
one  was  up  at  the  house,  just  to  let  him  in  to  change  his 
things  and  write  a  note.  Harry  needn't  fear  any  unpleasant 
consequences.  Wurley  wasn't  an  ill-natured  fellow  at  bottom, 
and  wouldn't  mind  a  few  iish.  Talking  of  fish,  where  was 
the  one  he  had  heard  kicking  just  now  as  Harry  hauled  in 
the  line.  They  went  to  the  place,  and,  looking  in  the  long 
grass,  soon  found  the  dead  trout,  still  on  the  night-line,  of 
which  the  other  end  remained  in  the  water.  Tom  seized  hold 
of  it,  and  pulling  it  carefully  in,  landed  another  fine  trout, 
while  Harry  stood  by,  looking  rather  sheepish.  Tom  inspected 
the  method  of  the  hues,  which  was  simple  but  awfully  de- 
structive. The  line  was  long  enough  to  reach  across  the 
stream.  At  one  end  was  a  heavy  stone,  at  the  other  a  short 
stake  cut  sharp,  and  driven  into  the  bank  well  under  the 
water.  At  intervals  of  four  feet  along  the  line  short  pieces  of 
fine  gimp  were  fastened,  ending  in  hooks  baited  alternately 
with  lob-worms  and  gudgeon.  Tom  complimented  his  com- 
panion on  the  killing  nature  of  his  cross-Hne. 

"  Where  are  your  other  lines,  Harry  1 "  he  asked ;  "  we 
may  as  well  go  and  take  them  up." 

"A  bit  higher  up  stream,'  Master  Tom;"  and  so  they 
walked  up  stream  and  took  up  the  other  lines. 

"  They'll  have  the  finest  dish  of  fish  they've  seen  this  long 
time  at  the  house  to-day,"  said  Tom,  as  each  line  came  out 
with  two  or  three  fijie  tliick-shouldered  fish  on  it ;  "  I'll  tell 
you  what,  Harry,  they're  deuced  well  set,  these  lines  of  yours, 
and  do  you  credit.     They  do  ;  I'm  not  complimenting  you." 

"  I  should  rather  Like  to  be  off.  Master  Tom,  if  you  don't 
object.  The  mornin's  gettin'  on,  and  the  men'll  be  about. 
'Twould  be  unked  for  I  to  be  caught." 

"  Well,  Harry,  if  you're  so  set  on  it  off  with  you,  but " — 

"  'Tis  too  late  now  ;  here's  keeper." 

Tom  turned  sharp  round,  and,  sure  enough,  there  was  the 
keeper  coming  down  the  bank  towards  them,  and  not  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  off. 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Tom ;  "  well,  only  hold  your  tongue,  and 
do  just  what  I  tell  you." 

The  keeper  came  up  quickly,  and  touching  his  hat  to  Tom, 
looked  inquiringly  at  him,  and  then  at  Harry.     Tom  nodded 


WHAT   CAME   OF   THE   NIGHT-WATCH.  433 

U)  liim,  as  if  everything  were  just  as  it  should  he.  Ho  Avas 
tnking  a  two-pound  fish  off  the  last  line  ;  having  finislicd 
which  feat  he  threw  it  on  the  ground  by  the  rest.  "  There 
keeper,"  he  said,  "  there's  a  fine  dish  of  fish.  Now,  pick  'era 
up  and  come  along." 

Never  was  keeper  more  puzzled.  He  looked  from  one  to 
the  other,  lifting  the  little  short  hat  from  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  scratching  that  somewhat  thick  skull  of  his,  as  his 
habit  was  when  engaged  in  what  he  called  thinking,  conscious 
that  somebody  ought  to  be  tackled,  and  that  he,  the  keejicr, 
was  being  mystified,  but  quite  at  sea  as  to  how  he  was  to  set 
himself  straight. 

"  Wet,  hain't  'ee,  sir  1 "  he  .said  at  last,  nodding  at  Tom's 
clothes. 

"  Dampish,  keeper,"  answered  Tom  ;  "  T  may  as  well  go  and 
change,  the  servants  will  be  up  at  the  house  by  this  time. 
]''ick  up  the  fish  and  come  along.  You  do  up  the  lines, 
Harry." 

The  keeper  and  H'ari-y  performed  their  tasks,  looking  at  one 
another  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes,  like  the  terriers  of 
rival  butchers  when  the  carts  happen  to  stop  suddenly  in  the 
street  close  to  one  another.  Tom  watched  them,  mischiev- 
ously delighted  Mdth  the  fun,  and  then  led  the  way  up  to  tlie 
house.  AVhen  they  came  to  the  stable-yard  he  turned  to 
Harry,  and  said,  "Stop  here;  I  shan't  be  ten  minutes;" 
adding,  in  an  under  tone,  "  Hold  your  tongue  now ; "  and 
then  vanished  through  the  back  dnor,  and,  hurrjdng  up  to  his 
room,  changed  as  quickly  as  he  could. 

He  was  within  the  ten  minutes,  but,  as  he  descended  the 
back  stairs  in  his  dry  things,  became  aware  that  his  stay  had 
been  +00  long.  Noise  and  laughter  came  up  from  the  stable- 
yard,  and  shouts  of,  "Go  it,  keeper,"  "Keeper's  down,"  "No 
he  hain't,"  greeted  his  astonished  ears.  He  sprang  down  the 
fast  steps  and  rushed  into  the  stable-yard,  where  he  found 
Harry  at  his  second  wrestling  match  for  the  day,  Avhile  two 
or  tliree  stablemen,  and  a  footman,  and  the  gardener,  looked 
on  and  cheered  the  combatants  with  the  remarks  he  had  heard 
on  his  way  down. 

Tom  made  straight  to  them,  and  tapjjing  Harry  on  the 
shoulder,  said — 

"  Now  then,  come  along,  I'm  ready." 

Whereupon  the  keei:)er  and  Harry  disengaged,  and  the 
latter  picked  up  his  cap. 

"  You  hain't  goin',  sir  1 "  said  the  keeper. 

"Yes,  keeper." 

"Not  along  wi'  he  1 " 


431  'lOM    BROWN   AT    OXFOKD. 

"  Yes,  keeper," 

"  What,  bain't  I  to  take  un  1 " 

"  Take  him  !     No,  what  for  1 " 

"  For  night  poachiii',  look  at  all  them  fish,"  said  the  keeper 
indignantly,  pointing  to  the  shining  heap. 

"No,  no,  keeper,  you've  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  may 
give  him  the  lines  though,  Harry.  I've  left  a  note  for  your 
master  on  my  dressmg-table,"  Tom  said,  turning  to  the  footman, 
"let  him  have  it  at  breakfast.  I'm  responsible  for  him," 
nodding  at  Harry.  "  I  shall  be  back  in  a  few  hours,  and 
now  come  along." 

ibid,  to  the  keeper's  astonishment,  Tom  left  the  stable-yard, 
accon)panied  by  Harry. 

They  were  scarcely  out  of  hearing  before  the  stable-yard 
broke  out  into  uproarious  laughter  at  the  keeper's  expense, 
and  much  rude  banter  was  inHicted  on  1dm  for  letting  the 
poacher  go.  But  the  keeper's  mind  for  the  moment  was  full 
of  other  things.  Disregarding  their  remarks,  he  went  on 
scratching  his  head,  and  burst  out  at  last  with, 

"Dang  un  ;  I  knows  I  should  ha'  drowed  un." 

"  Drow  your  grandmother,"  politely  remarked  one  of  the 
stablemen,  an  acquaintance  of  Harry  Winburn,  who  knew  his 
repute  as  a  wrestler. 

"  I  ghould,  I  tell  'ee,"  paid  the  keeper  as  he  stooped  to 
gather  up  the  fish,  "and  to  tliink  as  he  should  ha'  gone  off. 
Master  '11  be  lilce  any  wild  beast  when  he  hears  on't.  How- 
s'uiever,  'tis  Mr.  Brown's  doin's.  'Tis  a  queer  start  for  a 
gen'l'man  like  he  to  be  goin'  off  wi'  a  poacher  chap,  and 
callin'  of  un  Harry.  'Tis  past  me  altogether.  But  I  s'pose  ho 
bain't  right  in  's  'ead  j"  and,  so  soliloquizing,  he  carried  off 
the  fish  to  the  kitchen. 

Meantime,  on  their  walk  to  Englebourn,  Harry,  in  answer 
to  Tom's  inquiries,  explained  that  in  his  absence  the  stable- 
man, his  acquaintance,  had  come  up  and  begun  to  talk.  The 
keeper  had  joined  in  and  accused  hini  point  blank  of  being 
the  man  who  had  thrown  him  uito  the  furze  bush.  The  story 
of  the  keeper's  discomfiture  on  tliat  occasion  being  well  known, 
a  laugh  had  been  raised  in  which  Harry  had  joined.  This 
brought  on  a  challenge  to  try  a  fall  then  and  there,  which 
Harry  had  accepted,  notwithstanding  his  long  morning's  work 
and  the  ducking  he  had  had.  They  laughed  over  the  story, 
though  Harry  could  not  help  expressing  his  fears  as  to  how 
it  might  all  end.  They  reached  Englebourn  in  time  for 
breakfast.  Tom  appeared  at  the  rectory,  and  soon  he  anti 
Katie  were  on  their  old  terms.  She  was  delighted  to  fijid 
that  he  had   had  an  explanation  with  Ilarr}-  Winburn,  and 


WHAT   CAIIE    OF   THE   NIGHT-WATCH.  435 

that  there  was  some  cliance  of  bringing  that  sturdy  offeiiJer 
once  more  back  into  decent  ways  ; — more  deliglited  perhaps 
to  hear  the  way  in  which  he  spoke  of  Patty,  to  whom  after 
breakfast  she  paid  a  visit,  and  returned  in  due  time  with  the 
unfortunate  locket. 

Tom  felt  as  if  another  coil  of  the  chain  he  had  tied  about 
himself  had  fallen  off.  He  went  out  into  the  village,  con- 
sulted again  with  Harry,  and  returned  to  the  rectory  to  con- 
sider what  steps  were  to  be  taken  to  get  him  work.  Katie 
entered  into  the  matter  heartily,  though  foreseeing  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  case.  At  luncheon  the  rector  was  to  be  sounded 
on  the  subject  of  the  allotments.  But  in  the  middle  of  their 
pl.ans  they  were  startled  by  the  news  that  a  magistrate's 
warrant  had  arrived  in  the  village  for  the  arrest  of  Harry  as  a 
night  poacher. 

Tom  returned  to  the  Grange  furious,  and  before  night  had 
had  a  worse  quarrel  with  young  Wuiley  than  with  his  uncle 
before  him.  Had  duelling  been  in  fashion  still  in  England 
they  would  probably  have  fought  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  park 
before  night.  As  it  was  they  only  said  bitter  things,  and 
parted,  agreeing  not  to  know  one  another  in  future. 

Three  days  afterwards,  at  petty  sessions,  where  Tom  brought 
upon  himself  the  severe  censure  of  the  bench  for  his  conduct 
on  the  trial,  Harry  Winburu  was  committed  to  Eeading  gaol 
f'^r  three  months. 

Headers  who  will  take  the  trouble  ^.o  remember  the  picture 
of  our  hero's  mental  growth  during  ti.e  past  year,  attempted 
to  be  given  in  a  late  chapter,  and  the  state  of  restless  dis- 
satisfaction into  which  his  experiences  and  thoughts  and 
readings  had  thrown  him  by  the  time  long  vacation  had  come 
round  again,  will  perhaps  be  prepared  for  the  catastrophe 
which  ensued  on  the  conviction  and  sentence  of  Harry 
Winburn  at  petty  sessions. 

Hitherto,  notwithstanding  the  strength  of  the  new  and 
revolutionary  forces  whicli  were  mustering  round  it,  there  had 
always  been  a  citadel  holding  out  in  his  mind,  garrisoned  by 
all  that  was  best  in  the  toryism  in  which  he  had  been  brouglit 
up — by  loyalty,  reverence  for  established  order  and  established 
institutions  ;  by  family  traditions,  and  the  pride  of  an  in- 
herited good  name.  But  now  the  walls  of  that  citadel  went 
down  with  a  crash,  the  garrison  being  put  to  the  sword,  or 
making  away,  to  hide  in  out  of  the  way  corners,  and  wait  for 

reaction. 

It  was  much  easier  for  a  youngster,  whose  attention  was 
once  turned  to  such  subjects  as  had  been  occupying  Tom,  to 
get  hold  of  wild  and  violent  beliefs  and  notions  in  those  days 
F  F  2 


436  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFOED. 

than  now.  The  state  of  Europe  generally  was  far  more  dead 
and  hopeless.  There  Avere  no  wars,  certainly,  and  no  expecta- 
tions of  wars.  But  there  was  a  dull,  beaten-down,  pent-up 
feeling  abroad,  as  if  the  lid  were  screwed  dovm.  on  the  nations, 
and  the  thing  which  had  been,  however  cruel  and  heavy  and 
mean,  was  that  A\hich  was  to  remain  to  the  end.  England 
was  better  ofi'  than  her  neighbours,  but  yet  in  bad  case.  In 
the  south  and  west  particulaily,  several  causes  had  combined 
to  sjjread  a  very  bitter  feeling  abroad  amongst  the  agricultural 
poor.  Eirst  among  these  stood  the  new  poor  law,  the  pro- 
visions of  which  were  rigorously  carried  out  in  most  districts. 
The  i:)oor  had  as  yet  felt  the  liarshness  only  of  the  new  system. 
Then  the  laud  was  in  many  places  in  the  hands  of  men  on 
their  last  legs,  the  old  sporting  farmers,  who  had  begun 
business  as  young  men  while  the  great  war  was  going  on,  had 
made  money  liand  over  hand  for  a  few  years  out  of  the  war 
prices,  and  had  tried  to  go  on  living  with  greyhounds  and 
yeomam-y  uniforms — "horse  to  ride  and  weapon  to  wear" — 
through  the  hard  years  which  had  followed.  These  were  bad 
masters  in  every  way,  unthrifty,  jjrofligate,  needy,  and  narrow- 
minded.  The  younger  men  who  were  supplanting  them  were 
introducing  machinery,  threshing  machines  and  winnowing 
machines,  to  take  the  little  bread  which  a  poor  man  was  still 
able  to  earn  out  of  the  mouths  of  his  wife  and  children — so 
at  least  the  jDOor  tliought  and  muttered  to  one  another ;  and 
the  mutterings  broke  out  every  now  and  then  in  the  long 
nights  of  the  winter  months  in  blazing  ricks  and  broken 
machines.  Game  preserving  was  on  the  increase.  Australia 
and  America  had  not  yet  become  familiar  words  in  every 
English  village,  and  the  labour  market  was  everywhere  over- 
stocked ;  and  last,  but  not  least,  the  corn  laws  were  still  in 
force,  and  the  bitter  and  exasperating  strife  in  which  they 
went  out  was  at  its  height.  And  while  Swing  and  his  m}T- 
midons  were  abroad  in  the  counties,  and  could  scarcely  be 
kept  down  by  yeomanry  and  poor  law  guardians,  the  great 
towns  were  in  almost  worse  case.  Here  too  emigration  had 
not  yet  set  in  to  thin  the  labour  market ;  wages  were  falling, 
and  prices  rising  ;  the  corn-law  struggle  was  better  understood 
and  far  keener  than  in  the  country;  and  Chartism  was  gaining 
force  every  day,  and  rising  into  a  huge  tlu-eatening  giant, 
waiting  to  put  forth  his  strength,  and  eager  for  the  occasion 
wliich  seemed  at  hand. 

You  generation  of  young  Englishmen,  who  were  too  young 
then  to  be  troubled  with  such  matters,  and  have  groA\'n  into 
manhood  since,  you  little  know — may  j'ou  never  know ! — 
what  it  is  to  be  living  the  citizens  of  a  divided  and  distracted 


HUE    AND    CRY.  '  4?>7 

nation.  For  the  time  that  daiigor  is  past.  In  a  happy  liour, 
and  so  far  as  man  can  judge,  in  time,  and  only  just  in  time, 
came  the  repeal  of  the  corn  laws,  and  the  gieat  cause  of  strife 
and  the  sense  of  injustice  passed  away  out  of  men's  minds. 
The  nation  was  roused  by  the  Irish  fomine,  and  the  fearful 
distress  in  other  parts  of  the  country,  to  begin  looking  steadily 
and  seriously  at  some  of  the  sores  which  were  festering  in  its 
body,  and  undermining  health  and  life.  And  so  tlie  tide  had 
turned,  and  England  had  already  passed  the  critical  point, 
when  1848  came  upon  Christendom,  and  the  whole  of  Europe 
leapt  up  into  a  wild  blaze  of  revolution. 

Is  any  one  still  inclined  to  make  light  of  the  danger  that 
threatened  England  in  that  year,  to  sneer  at  the  10th  of  April, 
and  the  monster  petition,  and  the  mon.ster  meetings  on 
Kennington  and  other  commons  1  Well,  if  there  be  such 
persons  amongst  my  readers,  I  can  only  say  that  they  can 
have  known  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  around  them  and 
below  them,  at  that  time,  and  I  earnestly  hope  that  their 
vision  has  become  clearer  since  then,  and  that  tliey  are  not 
looking  with  the  same  eyes  that  see  notliing,  at  the  signs  of 
to-day.  For  that  there  are  (]^uestions  still  to  be  solved  by  us 
in  England,  in  this  current  half-century,  quite  as  lilvcly  to 
tear  the  nation  in  pieces  as  the  corn  laws,  no  man  with  half 
an  eye  in  his  head  can  doubt.  They  may  seem  little  clouds 
like  a  man's  hand  on  the  horizon  just  now,  but  they  will 
darken  the  whole  heaven  before  long,  unless  we  can  find 
wisdom  enough  amongst  us  to  take  the  little  clouds  in  hand 
in  time,  and  make  them  descend  in  soft  rain. 

But  such  matters  need  not  be  spoken  of  here.  All  I  want 
to  do  is  to  put  my  younger  readers  in  a  position  to  understand 
how  it  was  that  our  hero  fell  away  into  beliefs  and  notions, 
at  which  Mrs.  Grundy  and  all  decent  people  could  only  lift 
up  eyes  and  hands  in  pious  and  respectable  horror,  and  became, 
soon  after  the  incarceration  of  his  friend  for  night  poaching, 
little  better  than  a  physical  force  Chartist  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one. 


CHAPTER    XL. 

HUE    AND    CRY. 

At  the  end  of  a  gusty  wild  October  afternoon,  a  man 
leading  two  horses  was  marching  up  and  down  the  little  plot 
of  short  tjirf  at  the  top  of  the  Hawk's  Lynch.  Every  now 
and  then  he  would  stop  on  the  brow  of  the  hiU  to  look  ovt;r 


438  TOM    BEOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

the  village,  and  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  somebody  from  that 
quarter.  After  being  well  blown  he  would  turn  to  hia 
promenade  again,  or  go  in  under  the  clump  of  firs,  through 
which  the  rising  south-west  wind,  rushing  up  from  the  valo 
below,  was  beginning  to  make  a  moan  ;  and,  hitching  the 
hordes  to  some  stump  or  bush,  and  patting  and  coaxing  them 
to  induce  them,  if  so  might  be,  to  stand  quiet  for  a  while, 
would  try  to  settle  himself  to  leeward  of  one  of  the  larger 
trees. 

But  the  fates  were  against  all  attempts  at  repose.  He  had 
scarcely  time  to  produce  a  cheroot  from  his  case  and  light  it 
under  many  difficulties,  when  the  horses  would  begin  fidget- 
ing, and  pulling  at  their  bridles,  and  shifting  round  to  get 
their  tails  to  the  wind.  They  clearly  did  not  understand  the 
necessity  of  the  position,  and  were  inclined  to  be  moving 
stablewards.  So  he  had  to  get  up  again,  sling  the  bridles 
over  his  arm,  and  take  to  his  march  up  and  down  the  plot  of 
turf ;  now  stopping  for  a  moment  or  two  to  try  to  get  his 
cheroot  to  burn  straight,  and  pishing  and  pshamng  over  its 
perverseness  ;  now  going  again  and  again  to  the  brow,  and 
looldng  along  the  road  which  led  to  the  village,  holding  his 
hat  on  tight  with  one  hand — for  by  this  time  it  was  blowing 
half  a  gale  of  wind. 

Though  it  was  not  yet  quite  the  hour  for  his  setting,  the 
sun  had  disappeared  behind  a  heavy  bank  of  wicked  slate- 
coloured  cloud,  which  looked  as  though  it  were  rising  straight 
up  into  the  western  heavens,  while  the  wind  whirled  along 
and  twisted  into  quaint  shapes  a  ragged  rift  of  light  vapour, 
which  went  hurrying  by,  almost  touching  the  tops  of  the 
moaning  firs.  Altogether  an  uncanny  evening  to  be  keeping 
tryst  at  the  top  of  a  wild  knoll  ;  and  so  thought  our  friend 
with  the  horses,  and  showed  it,  too,  clearly  enough,  had  any 
one  been  there  to  put  a  construction  on  his  impatient  move- 
ments. 

There  was  no  one  nearer  than  the  village,  of  which  the 
nearest  house  was  half-a-mile  and  more  away  ;  so,  by  way 
of  passing  the  time,  we  must  exercise  our  privilege  of  put- 
ting into  words  what  he  is  half  thinlcing,  half  muttering 
to  himself: — 

"  A  pleasant  night  I  call  this,  to  be  oiit  on  a  wild  goose 
chase.  If  ever  I  saw  a  screaming  storm  brewing,  there  it 
comes.  I'll  be  hanged  if  T  stop  up  here  to  be  caught  in  it 
for  all  the  crack-brained  friends  I  ever  had  in  the  world  ;  and 
I  seem  to  have  a  faculty  for  picking  up  none  but  crack-brained 
ones.  I  wonder  what  the  plague  can  keep  him  so  long ;  he 
must  have  been  gone  an  hour.     There  steady,  steady,  old 


HUE    AND    C1?Y.  439 

hirse.  Confound  this  weed  !  What  rascals  tobacconists  are  ! 
Vou  never  can  get  a  cheroot  now  worth  smoking.  Every  one 
of  them  goes  spluttering  up  the  side,  or  chaning  up  the 
middle,  and  tasting  like  tow  soaked  in  saltjietre  and  tobacco 
juice.     Well,  I  suppose  I  shall  get  the  real  thing  in  India. 

"  India  !  In  a  month  from  to-day  we  shall  be  off.  To  hear 
our  senior  major  talk,  one  might  as  well  be  going  to  the 
bottomless  pit  at  once.  Well,  he'll  sell  out,  that's  a  comfort. 
Gives  us  a  step,  and  gets  rid  of  an  old  ruffian.  I  don't  seem 
to  care  much  what  the  place  is  like  if  we  only  get  some  work  ; 
and  there  will  be  some  work  there  before  long,  by  all  accounts. 
'  No  more  garrison-towTi  life,  at  any  rate.  And  if  I  have  any 
luck — a  man  may  get  a  chance  there. 

"  "UTiat  the  deuce  can  he  be  about  1  This  all  comes  of 
sentiment,  now.  Why  couldn't  I  go  quietly  off  to  India 
without  bothering  up  to  Oxford  to  see  him  ?  Not  but  what 
it's  a  pleasant  place  enough.  I've  enjoyed  mj'  three  days 
there  uncommonly.  Food  and  drink  all  that  can  be  wished, 
and  plenty  of  good  fellows  and  fun.  The  look  of  the  place, 
too,  makes  one  feel  respectable.  But,  by  George,  if  their 
divinity  is  at  all  like  their  politics,  they  must  turn  out  a 
queer  set  of  parsons — at  least  if  Brown  picked  up  his  precious 
notions  at  Oxford.  He  always  was  a  headstrong  beggar. 
What  was  it  he  was  holding  forth  about  last  night  1  Let's 
see.  'The  sacred  right  of  insurrection.'  Yes,  that  was  it, 
and  he  talked  as  if  he  believed  it  all  too  ;  and,  if  there 
should  be  a  row,  which  don't  seem  unlikely,  by  Jove  I  think 
he'd  act. on  it  in  the  sort  of  temper  he's  in.  How  about  the 
sacred  right  of  getting  hung  or  transported  1  I  shouldn't 
wonder  to  hear  of  that  some  day.  Gad  !  suppose  he  should 
be  in  for  an  instalment  of  his  sacred  right  to-night.  He's 
capable  of  it,  and  of  lugging  me  in  with  him.  What  did  he 
say  we  were  come  here  for  1  To  get  some  fellow  out  of  a 
scrape,  he  said — some  sort  of  poaching  radical  foster-brother 
of  his,  who  had  been  in  gaol,  and  deserved  it  too,  I'll  be 
bound.  And  we  couldn't  go  down  quietly  into  the  village 
and  put  up  at  the  public,  where  I  might  have  sat  in  the  tap, 
and  not  run  the  chaiice  of  having  my  skin  bloA\'Ti  over  my 
ears,  and  my  teeth  down  my  throat,  on  this  cursed  look-out 
place,  because  he's  too  well  knoivn  there.  What  does  that 
mean  ?  Upon  my  soul  it  looks  bad.  They  may  be  lynching 
a  J. P.  down  there,  or  making  a  spread  eagle  of  the  parish- 
constable  at  this  minute,  for  anything  I  know,  and  as  sure  as 
fate  if  they  are  I  shall  get  my  foot  in  it. 

"  It  will  read  sweetly  in  the  naval  and  military  intelligence 
— 'A  court-martial  was  held  this  day  at  Chatham,  president, 


440  TOM   BKOWN    AT    OXFOED. 

Colonel  Smith,  of  Her  Majesty's  101st  Kegimeut,  to  try 
HeD"y  East,  a  lieutenant  in  the  same  distinguished  corps,  wlio 
has  been  under  arrest  since  the  10th  ult,  for  aiding  and 
abetting  the  escape  of  a  convict,  and  taking  part  in  a  riot  in 
the  village  of  Englebourn,  m  the  county  of  Berks.  The 
defence  of  the  accused  was  that  he  had  a  sentimental  friend- 
ship for  a  certain  Thomas  Brown,  an  undergraduate  of  St. 
i^mbrose  College,  Oxford,  &c.  &c.  ;  and  the  sentence  of  the 
Court — ' 

"  Hang  it !  It's  no  laughing  matter.  Many  a  fellow  has 
been  broken  for  not  making  half  such  a  fool  of  himself  as  I 
have  done,  coming  out  here  on  this  errand.  I'll  tell  T.  B.  a 
bit  of  my  mind  as  sure  as 

"  Hullo  !  didn't  I  hear  a  shout  1  Only  the  wind,  I  believe. 
How  it  does  blow  !  One  of  these  firs  will  be  down,  I  expect, 
just  now.  The  storm  wiU  burst  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Here  goes  !  I  shall  ride  down  into  the  village,  let  what  will 
come  of  it.  Steady  now,  steady.  Stand  still,  you  old  fool ; 
can't  you  'i 

"  There,  now  I'm  all  right.  Solomon  said  something  about 
a  beggar  on  horseback.  Was  it  Solomon,  though  1  Never 
mmd.  He  couldn't  ride.  Never  had  a  horse  till  he  was 
grown  up.  But  he  said  some  uncommon  wise  things  about 
having  nothing  to  do  with  such  fi'iends  as  T.  B.  So,  Harry 
East,  if  you  please,  no  more  tomfoolery  after  to-day.  You've 
got  a  whole  skin,  and  a  lieutenant's  commission  to  make  your 
way  in  the  world  with,  and  are  troubled  with  no  particular 
crotchets  yourself  that  need  ever  get  you  into  trouble.  So 
just  you  keep  clear  of  otlier  people's.  And  it'  your  friends 
must  be  mending  the  world,  and  poor  man's  plastering,  and 
running  their  heads  against  stone  walls,  why,  just  you  let  go 
of  theii"  coat  tails." 

So  muttering  and  meditating,  Harry  East  paused  a  moment 
after  mounting,  to  tirrn  up  the  coUar  of  the  rough  shooting- 
coat  which  he  was  wearing,  and  button  it  up  to  the  chin, 
before  rieluig  dovr-n  the  hiU,  when,  in  the  hurly-burly  of  the 
wind,  a  shout  came  spimiing  past  his  ears,  plain  enough  tliis 
time  ;  he  heard  the  gate  at  the  end  of  Englebouru-lane 
down  below  him  slrut  with  a  clang,  and  saw  two  men  running 
at  full  speed  towards  him,  straight  up  the  hiU. 

"  Oh  !  here  you  are  at  last,"  he  said,  as  he  watched  them. 
"  Well,  you  don't  lose  your  time  now.  Somebody  must  be 
after  them,  ^^^lat's  he  shouting  and  waving  his  hand  for  ? 
Oh,  I'm  to  bring  the  cavalry  supports  down  the  slope,  I  sup- 
pose. Well,  here  goes  :  he  has  brought  off  his  pal  the 
convict  I  see — 


HUE    AND    CUY.  441 

Says  he,  )'ou've  'scaped  fruui  transportation 

All  upon  the  briny  main  ; 
So  never  give  way  to  no  temptation, 

And  don't  get  drank  nor  prig  again ! 

There  goes  the  gate  again.     By  Jove,  what's  that  1  Dragoons, 
art    I'm    a    sinner  !     There's  going  to  be  the  d st  bear- 

Saying  which,  Harry  East  dug  his  heels  into  his  horse's 
sides,  holding  him  up  sharply  with  the  curb  at  the  same 
time,  and  in  another  moment  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
solitary  mound  on  which  he  had  been  perched  for  the  last 
hour,  and  on  the  brow  of  the  line  of  hill  out  of  whicli  il 
rose  so  abruptly,  just  at  the  point  for  which  the  two  runners 
Were  making.  He  had  only  time  to  glance  at  the  pursuers, 
and  saw  that  one  or  two  rode  sti'aight  on  the  track  of  tlie 
fugitives,  while  the  rest  skirted  away  along  a  parish  road 
which  led  up  the  hill  side  by  an  easier  ascent,  when  Tom  and 
his  companion  were  by  his  side.  Tom  seized  the  bridle  of  the 
led  horse,  and  was  in  the  saddle  with  one  spring. 

"  Jump  up  behind,"  he  shouted ;  "  now  then,  come 
along." 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  roared  East — in  that  wind  nothing  but 
a  shout  could  be  heard — pointing  over  his  shoulder  with  his 
thumb  as  they  turned  to  the  heath. 

"  Yeomanry." 

"  After  you  1 " 

Tom  nodded,  as  they  broke  into  a  gallop,  making  straight 
across  the  heath  towards  the  Oxford  road.  They  were  some 
quarter  of  a  mile  in  advance  before  any  of  theu'  pm-suers 
showed  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  behind  them.  It  was 
already  getting  dusk,  and  the  great  bank  of  cloud  was  by  tliis 
time  all  but  upon  them,  making  the  atmosphere  denser  and 
darker  every  second.  Then,  iirst  one  of  the  men  appeared 
wlio  had  ridden  straight  up  the  hill  under  the  Hawk's  Lynch, 
and,  pulling  up  for  a  moment,  caught  siglit  of  them  and  gave 
ciiase.  Half  a  minute  later,  and  several  of  those  who  had 
kept  to  the  road  were  also  in  sight,  some  distance  away  on  the 
left,  but  still  near  enough  to  be  unpleasant ;  and  they  too, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  were  in  full  pursuit.  At  iii"st  the 
fugitives  held  their  own,  and  the  distance  between  them  and 
their  pursuers  was  not  lessened,  but  it  was  clear  that  tliis 
could  not  last.  Anything  that  horse-flesh  is  capable  of,  a  real 
good  Oxford  hack,  such  as  they  rode,  will  do  ;  but  to  carry 
two  full-grown  me)i  at  the  end  of  a  pretty  long  day,  away 
from  fresh  horses  and  moderate  weights,  is  too  much  to  exjx^ct 
even  of  Oxford  horae-Hesh  j  and  the  gallant  beast  which  Tom 


442  TOM  BROWJS  AT  OXFOKD. 

rude  was  beginning  to  show  signs  of  distress  wlien  they  struck 
into  the  road.  There  was  a  slight  dip  in  the  ground  at  this 
place,  and  a  little  further  on  the  heath  rose  suddenly  again, 
and  the  road  ran  between  high  banks  for  a  short  distance. 

As  they  reached  this  point  they  disappeared  for  the  moment 
from  the  yeomanry,  and  the  force  of  the  wind  was  broken  by 
the  banks,  so  that  they  could  breathe  more  easily,  and  hear 
one  another's  voices. 

Tom  looked  anxiously  round  at  the  lieutenant,  who  shrugged 
bis  shoulders  in  answer  to  the  look,  as  he  bent  forward  to 
ease  his  own  horse,  and  said — 

"  Can't  last  another  mile." 

"What's  to  be  done?" 

East  again  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  know,  Master  Tom,"  said  Harry  Winburn. 

"^Vliat?" 

"  Pall  up  a  bit,  sir." 

Tom  pulled  up,  and  his  horse  fell  into  a  walk  willingly 
enough,  while  East  passed  on  a  few  strides  ahead.  Harry 
"Winburn  sprang  off. 

"  You  ride  on,  now,  ^Master  Tom,"  he  said,  "  I  knows  the 
heath  well  ;  you  let  me  bide." 

"  No,  no,  Harry,  not  I.  I  won't  leave  you  now ;  so  let 
them  come,  and  be  hanged." 

East  had  pulled  up,  and  listened  to  their  talk. 

"  Look  here,  now,"  he  said  to  Hai'ry  ;  "  put  your  arm  over 
the  hind  part  of  his  saddle,  and  run  by  the  side  ;  you'll  find 
you  can  go  as  fast  as  the  horse.  Now,  you  two  push  on,  and 
strike  across  the  heath.  I'll  keep  the  road,  and  take  off  this 
joker  behind,  who  is  the  only  dangerous  customer." 

"  That's  like  you,  old  boy,"  said  Tom,  "  then  we'll  meet  at 
the  first  public  beyond  the  heath  ; "  and  they  passed  ahead  in 
their  turn,  and  turned  on  to  tlie  heath,  Harry  running  by  the 
side,  as  the  lieutenant  had  advised. 

East  looked  after  them,  and  then  put  his  horse  into  a  steady 
trot,  muttering — 

"  Like  me !  yes,  devilish  like  me ;  I  know  that  well 
enough.  Didn't  I  always  play  cat's-paw  to  his  monkey  at 
school  ]  but  that  convict  don't  seem  such  a  bad  lot,  aftei 
all." 

Meantime  Tom  and  Harry  struck  away  over  the  heath,  as 
the  darkness  closed  in,  and  the  storm  drove  down.  They 
stumbled  on  over  the  charred  furze  roots,  and  splashed  through 
the  sloppy  peat  cuttings,  casting  anxious,  hasty  looks  over 
their  shoulders  as  they  fled,  straiiung  every  nerve  to  get  on, 
and  longing  for  night  and  the  storm. 


HUE    AND    CRY.  443 

"Hark,  wasn't  that  a  piatol-shot  1"  said  Tom,  as  tliey  floun- 
fiered  on.     The  sound  came  from  the  road  they  had  left. 

"  Look  !  here's  some  on  'em,  then,"  said  Harry  ;  and  Tom 
was  aAvare  of  two  horsemen  coming  over  the  brow  of  the  hill 
on  their  left,  some  three  hundred  yards  to  the  rear.  At  the 
same  instant  his  horse  stumbled,  and  came  down  on  his  nose 
and  knees.  Tom  went  off  over  his  shoulder,  tumbling 
against  Harry,  and  sending  him  headlong  to  the  ground, 
but  keeping  hold  of  the  bridle ;  they  were  up  again  in  a 
moment. 

"Are  von  hurt r' 

"  Come  along,  then,"  and  Tom  was  in  the  saddle  again,  when 
the  pursuers  raised  a  shout.  They  had  caught  sight  of  them 
now,  and  spurred  down  the  slope  towards  them.  Tom  Avas 
turning  his  horse's  head  straight  away,  but  Hai-ry  shouted, — 

"  Keep  to  the  left,  Master  Tom,  to  the  left,  right  on." 

It  seemed  like  running  into  the  lion's  jaws,  but  he  yielded, 
and  they  pushed  on  doAATi  the  slope  on  which  they  were. 
Another  shout  of  triumph  rose  on  the  howling  wind  ;  Tom's 
heart  sank  within  him.  The  enemy  was  closing  on  them  at 
every  stride  ;  another  hundred  yards,  and  they  must  meet 
at  the  bottom  of  the  slope.  What  could  Harry  be  dreaming 
of?  The  thought  had  scarcely  time  to  cross  his  brain,  when 
down  went  the  two  yeomen,  horse  and  man,  floundering  in  a 
bog  above  their  horses'  girths.  At  the  same  moment  the 
storm  burst  on  them,  the  driving  mist  and  pelting  rain.  The 
chase  was  over.  They  could  not  have  seen  a  regiment  of  men 
at  fifty  yards'  distance. 

"  You  let  me  lead  the  horse,  Master  Tom,"  shouted  Harry 
Winburn  ;  "  I  knowed  where  they  was  going  ;  'twill  take  they 
the  best  part  o'  the  night  to  get  out  o'  that,  I  knows." 

"All  right,  let's  get  back  to  the  road,  then,  as  soon  as  we 
can,"  said  Tom,  surrendering  his  horse's  head  to  Harry,  and 
turning  up  his  collar,  to  meet  the  pitiless  deluge  which  was 
driving  on  their  flanks.  They  were  drenched  to  the  skin  in 
two  minutes  ;  Tom  jumped  oflF,  and  plodded  along  on  the 
opposite  side  of  his  horse  to  Harry.  They  did  not  speak  ; 
there  was  very  little  to  be  said  under  the  circumstances,  and 
a  great  deal  to  be  thought  about. 

Harry  Winburn  probably  knew  the  heath  as  well  as  any 
man  living,  but  even  he  had  much  difficulty  in  finding  his 
way  back  to  the  road  through  that  storm.  However,  after 
some  half-hour,  spent  in  beating  about,  they  reached  it,  and 
turned  their  faces  northwards  towards  Oxford.  By  this  time 
night  had  come  on  ;  but  the  fury  of  the  storm  had  passed 


444  TOM    BROWN    AT   OXFORD. 

over  tliem,  and  the  moon  began  to  show  every  now  and  then 
tlirough  the  driving  clouds.  At  hist  Tom  roused  himself  out 
of  the  brown  study  in  which  he  had  been  hitherto  plodding 
along,  and  turned  down  his  coat  collar,  and  shook  himself, 
and  looked  up  at  the  sky,  and  across  at  his  companion,  who 
was  still  leading  the  horse  along  mechanically.  It  was  too  dark 
to  see  his  face,  but  his  walk  and  general  look  were  listless  and 
dogged  ;  at  last  Tom  broke  silence. 

"  You  promised  not  to  do  anything,  after  you  came  out, 
without  speaking  to  me."  Harry  made  no  reply  ;  so  presently 
he  went  on  : — 

"  I  didn't  think  you'd  have  gone  in  for  such  a  business  as 
that  to-night.  I  shouldn't  have  minded  so  much  if  it  had 
only  been  machine-breaking ;  but  robbing  the  cellar  and 
staving  in  ale  casks  and  maiming  cattle — " 

"  I'd  no  hand  in  that,"  interrupted  Harry. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  You  were  certainly  leaning  against 
the  gate  when  I  came  up,  and  taking  no  part  in  it ;  but  you 
were  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  riot." 

"  He  brought  it  on  hisself,"  said  Harry,  doggedly. 

"  Tester  is  a  bad  man,  I  know  that ;  and  the  people  have 
much  to  complain  of :  but  nothing  can  justify  what  was  done 
to-nigiit."     Hurry  made  no  answer. 

"  You're  known,  and  they'll  be  after  you  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning.      I  don't  know  what's  to  be  done." 

"'Tis  very  little  odds  what  happens  to  me." 

"  You've  no  right  to  say  that,  Harry.     Your  friends — " 

"  I  ain't  got  no  friends." 

"Well,  Harry,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  say  that  after 
what  has  happened  to-night.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  my 
friendship  has  done  you  much  good  yet ;  but  I've  done  what 
1  could,  and " 

"  So  you  hev',  Master  Tom,  so  you  liev'." 

"  And  I'll  stick  by  you  through  thick  and  thin,  Harry.  But 
you  must  take  heart  and  stick  by  yourself,  or  we  shall  never 
pull  you  through."  Harry  groaned,  and  then,  turning  at 
once  to  what  was  always  uppermost  in  his  mind ;  said, — 

"  'Tis  no  good  now  I've  been  in  gaol.  Her  father  wur  alius 
agin  me.  And  now,  how  be  I  ever  to  hold  up  my  head  at 
whoam  1  I  seen  her  once  arter  I  came  out." 

"Well,  and  what  happened?"  said  Tom,  after  waiting  a 
moment  or  two. 

"  She  just  turned  red  and  pale,  and  was  all  flustered  like, 
and  made  as  though  she'd  have  held  out  her  hand  :  and  then 
tuk  and  hui'ried  off  like  a  frighted  hare,  as  though  she  heerd 
Bomebody  a  comin'.     Ah  !  'tis  no  good  !  'tis  no  good  ! " 


HUE   AND   CRY.  445 

"  T  don't  see  anything  very  hopeless  in  that,"  said  Tom. 

"  I've  knowed  lier  since  she  wur  that  high,"  went  on  Harrj'', 
holding  out  his  hand  about  as  high  as  the  bottom  of  his 
waistcoat,  without  noticing  the  interruption,  "when  her  and 
I  went  a  gleanin  together.  'Tis  what  I've  thought  on,  and 
lived  for,  'Tis  four  year  and  better  since  she  and  I  broke  a 
sixpence  auver't.  And  at  times  it  sim'd  as  tho'  'twould  all 
cum  right,  when  my  poor  mother  wur  livin', — tho'  her  never 
tuk  to  it  kindly,  mother  didn't.  But  'tis  all  gone  now  !  and 
I  be  that  mad  wi'  myself,  and  mammered,  and  down,  I  be 
ready  to  hang  myself,  Master  Tom  ;  and  if  they  just  teks  and 
transpworts  me " 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Harry  !  You  must  keep  out  of  that.  "VVe 
shall  think  of  some  way  to  get  you  out  of  tJiat  before  morning. 
And  you  must  get  clear  away,  and  go  to  work  on  the  railways 
or  somewhere.  Tliere's  nothing  to  be  downhearted  about  as 
far  as  Patty  is  concerned." 

"  Ah  !  'tis  they  as  wears  it  as  knows  where  the  shoe  pinches. 
You'd  say  dili'erent  if  'twas  you,  Master  Tom." 

"Should  I  ?"  said  Tom  ;  and,  after  pausing  a  moment  or 
two,  he  went  on.  "  AVhat  I'm  going  to  say  is  in  confidence. 
I've  never  told  it  to  any  man  yet,  and  only  one  has  found  it 
out.  Now,  Harry,  I'm  much  worse  off  than  you  at  this  minute. 
Don't  I  know  where  the  shoe  pinches  !  Why  I  haven't  seen 
— I've  scarcely  heard  of — of — well,  of  my  sweetheart — there, 
you'll  understand  that — for  this  year  and  more.  I  don't  know 
when  I  may  see  her  again.  I  don't  know  that  she  hasn't  clean 
forgotten  me.  I  don't  know  that  she  ever  cared  a  straw  for 
me.  Now,  you  know  quite  well  that  you  are  better  off  than 
that." 

"  I  bean't  so  sure  o'  that,  Master  Tom.  But  I  be  terrible 
vexed  to  liear  about  you." 

"  Never  mind  about  me.  You  say  you'ie  not  sure,  Harry. 
Come,  now,  you  said,  not  two  minutes  ago,  that  you  two  had 
broken  a  sixpence  over  it.     What  does  that  mean,  now  ]" 

"  Ah  !  but  'tis  four  years  gone.  Her's  bin  a  leadin'  o'  me 
up  and  down,  and  a  dancin'  o'  me  round  and  round  purty 
nigh  ever  since,  let  alone  the  time  as  she  wur  at  Oxford, 
when " 

"  Well,  we  won't  talk  of  that,  Harry.  Come,  will  yesterday 
do  for  you  ?  If  you  thought  she  was  all  right  yesterday,  would 
that  satisfy  you  1" 

"  Ees  ;  and  summat  to  spare." 

"  You  don't  believe  it,  I  see.  Well,  why  do  you  think  I 
came  after  you  to-night  ?  How  did  I  know  what  was  going 
on  I" 


446  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"  That's  just  what  I've  been  a  axm'  o'  myself  as  we  cum 
along." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you.  I  came  because  I  got  a  note 
from  her  yesterday  at  Oxford."  Tom  paused,  for  he  heard  a 
muttered  growl  from  the  other  side  of  the  horse's  head,  and 
could  see,  even  in  the  fitful  moonlight,  the  angry  toss  of  the 
head  with  which  his  news  was  received.  "  I  didn't  expect 
this,  Harry,"  he  went  on  presently,  "after  what  I  told  you 
just  now  about  myself.  It  was  a  hard  matter  to  tell  it  at  all  ; 
but,  after  telling  you,  I  didn't  think  you'd  susj)ect  me  any 
more.  However,  perhaps  I've  deserved  it.  So,  to  go  on  with 
what  I  was  saying,  two  years  ago,  when  I  came  to  my  senses 
about  her,  and  before  I  cared  for  any  one  else,  I  told  her  to 
write  if  ever  I  could  do  her  a  service.  Anything  that  a  man 
could  do  for  his  sister  I  was  boimd  to  do  for  her,  and  I  told 
her  so.  She  never  answered  till  yesterday,  when  I  got  this 
note,"  and  he  dived  into  the  inner  breast  pocket  of  his 
shooting-coat.  "  If  it  isn't  soaked  to  pulp,  it's  in  my  pocket 
now.  Yes,  here  it  is,"  and  he  produced  a  dirty  piece  of  paper, 
and  handed  it  across  to  his  companion.  "  When  there's  light 
enough  to  read  it,  you'll  see  plain  enough  what  she  means, 
though  your  name  is  not  mentioned." 

Having  finished  his  statement,  Tom  retired  into  himself, 
and  walked  along  watching  the  hunying  clouds.  After  they 
had  gone  some  hundred  yards,  Harry  cleared  his  throat  once 
or  twice,  and  at  last  brought  out, — 

"  Master  Tom." 

"  Well." 

"You  bean't  offended  wi'  me,  sir,  I  hopes?" 

"  No,  why  should  I  be  offended  ?" 

"'Cause  I  knows  I  be  so  all-fired  jealous,  I  can't  abear  to 
hear  o'  her  talkin',  let  alone  writin'  to " 

"  Out  with  it.     To  me,  you  were  going  to  say." 

"  Nay,  'tis  mwore  nor  that." 

"  All  right,  Harry,  if  you  only  lump  me  with  the  rest  of 
mankind,  I  don't  care.  But  you  needn't  be  jealous  of  me, 
and  you  musn't  be  jealous  of  me,  or  I  shan't  he  able  to  help 
you  as  I  want  to  do.  I'll  give  you  hand  and  word  on  it,  as 
man  to  man,  there's  no  thought  in  my  heart  towards  her  that 
you  mightn't  see  this  minute.     Do  you  believe  me?" 

"Ees,  and  you'll  forgie " 

"  There's  nothing  to  forgive,  Harry.  But  now  you'll  allow 
your  case  isn't  such  a  bad  one.  She  must  keep  a  good  look- 
out after  you  to  know  what  you  were  likely  to  be  about  to-day. 
And  if  she  didn't  care  for  you  she  woiddn't  have  written  to 
me.     That's  good  sense,  I  think." 


THE  lieutenant's  SENTIMENTS  AND  PEOBLEMS.     447 

Harry  assented,  and  then  Tom  went  into  a  consideration  of 
"what  was  to  be  done,  and,  as  usual,  fair  castles  began  to  rise 
in  the  air.  Harry  was  to  start  down  the  line  at  once,  and  take 
work  on  the  railway.  In  a  few  weeks  he  would  be  captain  of 
a  gang,  and  then  what  was  to  hinder  his  becoming  a  con- 
tractor, and  making  his  fortune,  and  buying  a  farm  of  his  own 
at  Englebourn  1  To  all  which  Harry  listened  with  open  ears 
till  they  got  off  the  heath,  and  came  upon  a  small  hamlet  of 
some  half-dozen  cottages  scattered  along  the  road. 

"There's  a  public  here,  I  suppose,"  said  Tom,  returning  to 
the  damp  realities  of  life.  Harry  indicated  the  humble  place 
of  entertainment  for  man  and  horse. 

"  That's  all  right.  I  hope  we  shall  find  my  friend  here  ;" 
and  they  went  towards  the  light  which  was  shining  tempt- 
ingly through  the  latticed  window  of  the  road-side  inn. 


CHAPTEE    XLI. 

THE   lieutenant's    SENTIMENTS    AND    PROBLEMS. 

"  Stop  !  It  looks  so  bright  that  there  must  be  something 
going  on.  Surely  the  yeomanry  can  never  have  come  on  here 
already  1" 

Tom  laid  his  hand  on  the  bridle,  and  they  halted  on  the 
road  opposite  the  public-house,  which  lay  a  little  back,  with 
an  open  space  of  ground  before  it.  The  sign-post,  and  a  long 
water-trough  for  the  horses  of  guests  to  drink  at,  were  pushed 
forward  to  the  side  of  the  road  to  ultimate  the  whereabouts 
of  the  house,  and  the  hack  which  Harry  led  was  already 
drinking  eagerly.  ^ 

"  Stay  here  for  a  minute,  ana  I'll  go  to  the  window,  and 
see  what's  up  inside.  It's  very  unlucl<y,  but  it  will  never  do 
for  us  to  go  in  if  there  are  any  people  there." 

Tom  stole  softly  up  to  the  window  out  of  which  the  liglit 
came.  A  little  scrap  of  a  curtain  was  drawn  across  a  portion 
of  it,  but  he  could  see  easily  into  thci  room  on  either  side  of 
the  curtain.  The  first  glance  comforted  him,  for  lie  saw  at 
once  that  there  was  only  one  person  in  the  kitclien ;  but  who 
and  what  he  might  be  was  a  puzzle.  The  only  thing  which 
was  clear  at  a  first  glance  was,  that  he  was  making  himself  at 
home. 

The  room  was  a  moderate-sized  kitchen,  with  a  sanded  floor, 
and  a  large  fii'e-place  ;  a  high  wooden  screen,  with  a  narrow 
eeat  in  front  of  it,  ran  along  the  side  on  which  the  door  from 
the  entrance-passage  opened.     In  the  middle  there  was  a  long, 


448  TQM   BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

rough,  walnut  table,  on  whicii  stood  a  large  loaf,  Pome  cn^d 
hanon  aud  cheese,  and  a  yellow  jug  ;  a  few  hea^^  rusli- 
bottomed  cliairs  and  a  settle  composed  the  rest  of  the  furni- 
ture. On  the  wall  were  a  few  samplers,  a  warming  pan,  and 
shelves  with  some  conmion  delf  plates,  and  cups  and  saucers. 
l!ut  tliougli  the  furniture  was  meagre  enough,  the  kitchen  had 
a  look  of  wondrous  comfort  for  a  drenched  mortal  outside. 
I'om  felt  this  keeidy,  and,  after  a  glance  round,  fixed  his 
attention  on  the  happy  occupant,  with  the  view  of  ascertain- 
ing whether  he  would  be  a  safe  person  to  intrude  on  under 
the  circumstances.  He  was  seated  on  a  low,  three-cornered 
oak  seat,  with  his  back  to  the  window,  steadying  a  furze  I'aggot 
on  the  fire  with  the  poker.  The  faggot  blazed  and  crackled, 
and  roared  up  the  chimney,  sending  out  the  bright  flickering 
light  which  had  attracted  them,  and  forming  a  glorious  top  to 
the  glowing  clear  fire  of  wood  embers  beneath,  into  which 
was  inserted  a  long,  funnel-shaped  tin,  out  of  which  the  figure 
helped  himself  to  some  warm  compound,  when  he  had  settled 
the  faggot  to  his  satisfaction.  He  was  enveloped  as  to  his 
shoulders  in  a  heavy,  dirty-white  coat,  with  huge  cajie  and 
high  collar,  which  hid  the  back  of  his  head,  such  as  was  then 
in  use  by  country  carriers  ;  but  the  garment  was  much  too 
short  for  him,  and  his  bare  arms  came  out  a  foot  beyond  the 
end  of  the  sleeves.  The  rest  of  his  costume  was  even  more 
eccentric,  being  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  coarse  flannel 
petticoat ;  and  his  bare  feet  rested  on  the  mat  in  front  of  the 
fire. 

Tom  felt  a  sudden  doubt  as  to  his  sanity,  which  doubt  was 
ajiparently  shared  by  the  widow  woman,  who  kept  the  house, 
and  her  maid-of-all-work,  one  or  other  of  whom  might  be  seen 
constantly  keeping  an  eye  on  their  guest  from  behind  the  end 
of  the  wooden  screen.  However,  it  was  no  time  to  be  over 
particular  ;  they  must  rest  before  going  further,  and,  after  all, 
it  was  only  one  man.  So  Tom  thought,  and  was  just  on  the 
point  of  calUng  Harry  to  come  on,  when  the  figure  turned 
round  towards  the  window,  and  the  face  of  the  lieutenant  dis- 
closed itself  between  the  highpeaked  gills  of  the  carrier's  coat 
Tom  burst  out  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  called  out, 

"  It's  all  right,  come  along." 

•'I'll  just  look  to  the  bosses.  Master  Tom." 

"  Very  well,  and  then  come  into  the  kitchen  ;"  saying  which, 
he  hurried  into  the  liouse,  aud  after  tumbling  against  the 
maid-of-all-work  in  the  passage,  emerged  from  behind  the 
screen. 

"Well,  here  we  are  at  last,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  slapping 
East  on  the  shoulder. 


THE  LIEUTENANT'S  SENTIMENTS  AND  PliOBLEMS.      44? 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it  ?  I  thought  you  were  in  the  lock-u})  by 
this  time." 

East's  costume,  as  he  sat  looking  up,  with  a  hand  on  each 
knee,  was  even  more  ridiculous  on  a  close  inspection,  and  Tom 
roared  with  laughter  again. 

"  I  don't  see  the  joke,"  said  East  without  moving  a  muscle. 

"  You  would,  though,  if  you  could  see  j'ourself.  You  won- 
derful old  Guy,  where  did  you  pick  up  that  toggery  ?" 

"  The  late  lamented  husband  of  the  widow  Higgs,  our  land- 
lady, was  the  owner  of  the  coat.  He  also  bequeathed  to  her 
several  pairs  of  breeches,  Avhich  I  have  vainly  endeavoured  to 
get  into.  The  late  lamented  Higgs  was  an  abominably  small 
man.  He  must  have  been  very  much  her  worse  half.  So,  in 
default  of  other  clothing,  the  widow  has  kindly  obliged  me 
by  the  loan  of  one  of  her  own  garments." 

"  Where  are  your  ovvn  clothes?" 

"  There,"  said  East,  pointing  to  a  clothes'  horse,  which  Tom 
had  not  hitherto  remarked,  which  stood  well  into  the  chimney 
corner  ;  "and  they  are  dry,  too,"  he  went  on,  feeling  them  ; 
"  at  least  the  flannel  shirt  and  trousers  are,  so  I'll  get  into  them 
again." 

"  I  say,  ma'am,"  he  called  out,  addressing  the  screen,  "  I'm 
going  to  change  my  things.  So  you  had  better  not  look  in 
just  now.     In  fact,  we  can  call  now,  if  we  want  anything." 

At  this  strong  hint  the  widow  Higgs  was  heard  bustling 
away  behind  the  screen,  and  after  her  departure  East  got  into 
some  of  his  own  clothes  again,  offering  the  cast-off  garment? 
of  the  Higgs  family  to  Tom,  who,  hoAvever,  declined,  content- 
ing himself  with  taking  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  hangin{; 
them  upon  the  horse.  He  had  been  blown  comparatively  dry 
in  the  last  half-hour  of  his  walk. 

While  East  was  making  his  toilet,  Tom  turned  to  the  table, 
and  made  an  assault  on  the  bread  and  bacon,  and  then  poured 
himself  out  a  glass  of  beer  and  began  to  drink  it,  but  was 
pulled  up  half  way,  and  put  it  down  with  a  face  all  drawn 
up  into  puckers  by  its  sharpness. 

"  I  thought  you  wouldn't  appreciate  the  widow's  tap,"  said 
East,  watching  him  with  a  grin.  "  Eegular  whistle-belly 
vengeance,  and  no  mistake !  Here,  I  don't  mind  giving  you 
some  of  my  compound,  though  you  don't  deserve  it." 

So  Tom  drew  his  chair  to  the  fire,  and  smacked  his  lips 
over  the  long-necked  glass,  which  East  handed  to  him. 

"  Ah  !  that's  not  bad  tipple  after  such  a  ducking  as  we've 
had.     Dog's-nose,  isn't  if?" 

East  nodded. 

"Well,  old  f(  How,  T  Avill  say  you  are  the  best  hand  I  know 

Q  .T 


450  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

at  making  the  most  of  your  opportunities.  T  don't  know  of 
any  one  else  who  could  have  made  such  a  good  brew  out  of 
that  stuff  and  a  drop  of  gin." 

East  was  not  to  be  mollified  by  ai.y  such  compliment. 

"  Have  you  got  many  more  such  jobs  as  to-day's  on  hand  1 
I  should  think  they  must  interfere  with  reading," 

"  No.     But  T  call  to-day's  a  real  good  job." 

"  Do  you  t  I  don't  agree.  Of  course  it's  a  matter  of  taste. 
T  have  the  honour  of  holding  Her  Majesty's  commission  ;  so 
I  may  be  prejudiced,  perha])s." 

"  What  difference  does  it  make  whose  commission  you  hold? 
You  wouldn't  hold  any  commission,  I  know,  which  would  bind 
you  to  be  a  tyrant  and  oppress  the  weak  and  the  poor." 

"  Humbug  about  your  oppressing  ?  "Who  is  the  tyrant,  I 
should  like  to  know,  the  farmer,  or  the  mob  that  destroys  his 
property  ?     I  don't  call  Swing's  mob  the  weak  and  the  poor." 

"  That's  all  very  well  ;  but  I  should  like  to  know  how  you'd 
feel  if  you  had  no  work  and  a  starving  family.  You  don't 
know  what  people  have  to  sutler.  The  only  wonder  is  that 
all  the  country  isn't  in  a  blaze  ;  and  it  will  be  if  things  last 
as  they  are  much  longer.  It  uiust  be  a  bad  time  which  makes 
such  men  as  Harry  Winburn  into  rioters." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  Harry  Winburn.  But  I 
know  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said  on  the  yeomanry  side  of 
the  question." 

"  Well,  now,  East,  just  consider  this " 

"  No,  I'm  not  in  the  hiunour  for  considering.  I  don't  want 
to  argue  with  you." 

"  Yes,  that's  always  the  way.  You  won't  hear  what  a 
fellow's  got  to  say,  and  then  set  him  down  for  a  mischievous 
fool,  because  he  won't  give  up  beliefs  founded  on  the  evidence 
of  his  own  eyes,  and  ears,  and  reason." 

"  I  don't  quarrel  with  iuiy  of  your  beliefs.  You've  got  'em 
— 1  haven't — that's  just  the  ditl'erence  between  us.  You've 
got  some  sort  of  faith  to  fall  back  upon,  in  equality,  and 
brotherhood,  and  a  lot  of  cursed  nonsense  of  that  kind.  Sc, 
T  dare  say,  you  could  drop  down  into  a  navigator,  or  a  shoe- 
black, or  something  in  that  way  to-morrow,  and  think  it 
pleasant.  You  might  rather  enjoy  a  trip  across  the  water  at 
the  expense  of  your  country,  like  your  friend  the  convict  here." 

"Don't  talk  such  rot,  man.  In  the  first  place,  he  isn't  a 
convict — you  know  that,  well  enough." 

*'  He  is  just  out  of  prison,  at  any  rate.  However,  this  sort 
of  tiling  isn't  my  line  of  country  at  all.  So  the  next  tune 
you  want  to  do  a  bit  of  jgoal-dulivery  on  your  own  hook,  don  i 
ask  me  to  help  you." 


THE  LIEUTENANT' S  SENTIMEJSTS  AND  PROBLEAIS.      451 

"Well,  if  I  had  known  all  that  was  going  to  happen,  I 
wouldn't  have  ask  you  to  come,  old  fellow.  Come,  give  us 
another  glass  of  your  dog's-nose,  and  no  more  of  your  sermon, 
which  isn't  edifying." 

The  lieutenant  tilled  the  long-necked  glass  which  Tom 
held  out,  with  the  creaming  mixture,  which  he  was  nursing 
in  the  funnel-shaped  tin.  But  he  was  not  prepared  to  waive 
his  right  to  lecture,  and  so  continued,  while  Tom  sipped  his 
liquor  witli  much  relish,  and  looked  comically  across  at  his 
old.  schoolfellow. 

"  Some  fellows  have  a  call  to  set  the  world  right — I  haven't. 
My  gracious  sovereign  pays  me  seven  and  sixpence  a  day  ;  for 
which  sum  I  undertake  to  be  shot  at  on  certain  occasions  and 
by  proper  persons,  and  I  hope  when  the  time  comes  I  shall 
take  it  as  well  as  another.  But  that  doesn't  include  turning 
out  to  be  potted  at  like  a  woodcock  on  your  confounded 
Beikshire  wilds  by  a  tui'nip-headed  yeoman.  It  isn't  to  be 
done  at  the  figure." 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  just  what  I  say." 

"That  one  of  those  'unspeakable  yeomanry  has  been 
shooting  at  you  1 " 

"  Just  so." 

"  Xo,  you  don't  really  mean  it  ?  Wh-e-e-w  !  Then  that  shot 
we  lu'cxrd  was  fired  at  you.     'Pon  my  honour  I'm  very  sorry." 

"  Much  good  your  sorrow  would  have  done  me  if  your 
precious  countryman  had  held  straight." 

"  Well,  what  can  I  say  more,  East  ?  If  there's  anything  I 
can  do  to  show  you  that  I  really  am  very  soriy  and  asliamod  at 
having  brought  you  into  such  a  scrape,  only  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  I  don't  suppose  your  word  would  go  for  mucli  at  the 
Horse  Guards,  or  I'd  ask  you  to  give  me  a  character  for  cool- 
ness under  fire." 

"  Come,  I  see  you're  joking  now,  old  fellow.  Do  tell  us  how 
it  happened." 

"  Well,  when  you  turned  off  across  the  common  I  pulled 
up  for  half  a  minute,  and  then  held  on  at  a  steady  slow  trot. 
If  I  had  pushed  on  ahead,  my  friends  behind  would  have  been 
just  as  likely  to  turn  after  you  as  after  me.  Presently  I  heard 
number  One  coming  tearing  along  behind  ;  and  as  soon  as  he 
got  from  between  the  banks,  he  saw  me,  and  came  straight 
after  me  down  the  road.  You  were  well  away  to  the  left,  so 
now  I  just  clapped  on  a  bit,  to  lead  him  further  away  from 
the  right  scent,  and  on  he  came,  whoojjing  and  hallooing  to 
uie  to  j)ull  up.  I  didn't  sec  why  I  hadn't  just  as  good  a  right, 
to  ride  along  the  road  at  my  OAvn  pace  as  he ;  so  the  more  ho 
G  G  2 


462  TOM  BKOWiV   AT   OXFORD. 

shouted,  the  more  I  didn't  stop.  But  the  beggar  had  the  kiga 
of  me.  He  was  mounted  on  something  deuced  like  a  thorough- 
bred, and  gained  on  me  hand  over  hand.  At  last  when  I 
judged  he  must  be  about  twenty  yards  behind,  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  have  a  look  at  liira — so  1  just  turned  for  a 
moment,  and,  by  Jove,  there  was  my  lord,  lugging  a  pistol 
out  of  his  right  holster.  He  shouted  again  to  me  to  stop.  I 
turned,  ducked  my  head,  and  the  next  moment  he  pulled 
trigger,  and  missed  me." 

"And  wdrat  happened  then,"  said  Tom,  drawmg  a  long 
breath. 

"  Why,  I  flatter  myself  I  showed  considerable  generalsliip. 
If  I  had  given  him  time  to  get  at  his  other  pistol,  or  his 
toasting  fork,  it  was  all  up.  I  dived  into  my  pocket,  where 
by  good  luck  there  was  some  loose  powder,  and  copper  caps, 
and  a  siiufF-box  ;  upset  the  snufi",  grabbed  a  handful  of  the 
mixture,  and  pulled  hard  at  my  horse.  Next  moment  he  was 
by  my  side,  lifting  his  pistol  to  knock  me  over.  So  I  gave 
him  the  mixture  right  in  his  face,  and  let  him  go  by.  Up 
went  both  his  hands,  and  away  went  he  and  his  horse,  some- 
where over  the  common  out  of  sight.  I  just  turned  round, 
and  walked  quietly  back.  I  didn't  see  the  fun  of  accepting 
any  more  attacks  in  rear.  Then  up  rides  number  Two,  a 
broad-faced  young  farmer  on  a  big  grey  horse,  blowing  like  a 
grampus.  He  pulled  up  short  when  we  met,  and  stared,  and 
I  walked  past  him.  You  never  saw  a  fellow  look  more  puzzled, 
I  had  regularly  stale-mated  him.  However,  he  took  heart,  and 
ehouted,  'Had  I  met  the  Captain?'  I  said,  'A  gentleman  had 
ridden  by  on  a  bright  bay  V  '  That  was  he  ;  which  way  had 
he  gone?'  So  I  pointed  generally  over  the  common,  and 
number  Two  departed  ;  and  then  down  came  the  storm,  and 
I  turned  again,  and  came  on  here." 

"  The  Captain !  It  must  have  been  Wurloy,  then,  who 
fired  at  you." 

"  I  don't  Icnow  who  it  was.  I  only  hope  he  won't  be 
blinded." 

"  It's  a  strange  business  altogether,"  said  Tom,  looking 
into  the  fire ;  "  I  scarcely  know  what  to  think  of  it.  We 
should  never  have  pulled  tlumigh  but  for  you,  that's  certain." 

"  I  know  what  to  think  of  it  well  enough,"  said  East. 
"  But  now  let's  hear  what  happened  to  you.  They  didn't 
catch  you,  of  course  ?  " 

"  No,  but  it  was  touch  and  go.  I  thought  it  was_  all_  up 
at  one  time,  for  Harry  would  turn  right  across  their  line. 
But  he  knew  what  he  was  about ;  there  was  a  bog  between  us, 
and  they  came  on  right  into  it,  and  we  left  them  llounderuig. ' 


THE  LIEUTEN^VjS'T'S  SENTIMENTS  AND  PROBLEMS.     453 

"  The  convict  seems  to  have  liis  head  about  hun,  then- 
Where  is  he,  by  the  way  1  I'm  curious  to  liave  a  look 
at  him." 

"  Looking  after  the  horses.  I'll  call  him  in.  He  ought  to 
have  something  to  drink." 

Tom  went  to  the  door,  and  called  Harry,  wlio  came  out 
from  the  rough  shed  which  served  as  a  stable,  in  his  shirt, 
with  a  wisp  of  hay  in  his  hand.  He  had  stripped  off  coat, 
and  waistcoat,  and  braces,  and  had  been  warming  liimself  by 
giving  the  horses  a  good  dressing. 

"  Wliy,  Harry,  you  haven't  had  anything,"  said  Tom ; 
"  come  across,  and  have  a  glass  of  something  hot." 

Harry  followed  into  the  kitchen,  and  stood  by  tlie  end  of 
the  screen,  looking  rather  uncomfortable,  while  Tom  poured 
him  out  a  ghiss  of  the  hot  mixture,  and  the  lieutenant  looked 
him  over  wdth  keen  eyes. 

"  There,  take  that  off.     How  are  the  horses  ?  " 
"  Pretty  fresh,  IMaster  Tom.     But  tliey'd  be  the  better  of  a 
bran  mash,  or  somethin'  cumfable.     I've  spoke  to  the  missus 
about  it,  and  'tis  ready  to  put  on  tlie  fire." 

"  That's  right,  then.     Let  tliem  liave  it  as  quick  as  you  can." 
"  Then  I  med  fetch  it  and  warm  it  up  here,  sir  1 "  said 
Harry. 

"  To  be  sure ;  the  sooner  the  better." 

Harry  took  off  his  glass,  making  a  shy  sort  of  duck  with 
his  head,  accompanied  by  "  Your  health,  sir,"  to  each  of  liis 
entertainers,  and  then  disappeared  into  the  back-kitchen, 
returned  -with  the  mash,  which  he  put  on  the  fire,  and  went 
oil"  to  the  stable  again. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him  1 "  said  Tom. 
"  I  like  to  see  a  fellow  let  his  braces  down  when  he  goes 
to  work,"  said  East. 

"  It's  not  every  fellow  who  would  be  strapping  aw\ay  at 
those  horses,  instead  of  making  himself  at  home  in  the  back- 
kitchen." 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  said  East. 
"  Don't  you  like  his  looks  now?" 
"  He's  not  a  bad  sort,  your  convict." 
"  I  say,  I  wish  you  woiddn't  call  him  names." 
"  Very  good ;  your  unfortunate  friend,  then.     "What  are 
you  going  to  do  with  him  V 

"  That's  just  what  I've  been  puzzling  about  all  the  way 
here  :  what  do  you  think  1 "  And  then  they  drew  to  the  fire 
again,  and  began  to  talk  over  Harry's  prospects.  In  some 
ten  minutes  he  returned  to  the  kitchen  for  the  mash,  and  this 
time  drew  a  complimentary  remark  from  the  lieutenant 


454  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFOKD. 

Harry  was  passionately  fond  of  animals,  and  especially  of 
horses,  and  they  fonnd  it  out  quickly  enough,  as  they  always 
do.  The  two  hacks  were  by  this  time  alujost  fresh  again, 
with  dry  coats,  and  feet  well  washed  and  cleansed  ;  and,  while 
wnrking  at  them,  Harry  had  been  thinking  over  all  he  had 
heard  that  evening,  and  what  with  the  work  and  what  with 
his  thoughts,  found  himself  getting  more  hopeful  every 
minute.  No  one  who  had  seen  his  face  an  hour  before  on 
the  heath  wonld  have  believed  it  was  the  same  man  who  was 
now  patting  and  fondling  the  two  hacks  as  they  disposed  of 
the  mash  he  had  prepared  for  them.  He  leant  back  agaiiist 
the  manger,  rubbing  the  ears  of  Tom's  hack — the  one  which 
liad  carried  double  so  well  in  their  first  flight — gently  with 
liis  two  hands,  while  the  delighted  beast  bent  down  its  head, 
and  pressed  it  against  him,  and  stretched  its  neck,  expressing 
in  all  manner  of  silent  ways  its  equine  asimishnient  and 
satisfaction.  By  the  light  of  the  single  dip  Harry's  face  gimv 
shorter  and  shorter,  until  at  last  a  quiet  humorous  look  began 
to  creep  back  into  it. 

As  we  have  already  taken  the  liberty  of  putting  the  thoughti 
of  his  betters  into  words,  we  must  now  do  so  for  hiia  ;  and,  if 
h(^  had  exjiressed  his  thoughts  in  his  own  vernacular  as  he 
rubbed  the  hack's  ears  in  the  stable,  his  speech  would  have 
been  nnich  as  follows  : — 

"  How  cnms  it  as  T  be  all  changed  like,  as  tho'  sum  un 
had  tuk  and  rubbed  all  the  downhoartedness  out  o'  me  ? — 
Here  I  be,  two  days  out  o'  gaol,  wi'  nothin'  in  the  world  but 
the  things  I  stands  in — for  in  course  I  med  just  give  up  the 
bits  o'  things  as  is  left  at  Daddy  Collins's — and  they  all 
draggled  wi'  the  wet — and  T  med  be  tuk  in  the  mornin'  and 
si^nt  across  the  water — and  yet  I  feels  sum  how  as  peert  as  a 
yukkel.  So  fur  as  1  can  see,  'tis  jest  nothin'  but  talkin'  wi' 
our  Master  Tom.  What  a  fine  thing  'tis  to  be  a  schollard 
And  yet  seemin'ly  'tis  nothin'  but  talk  arter  all's  said  and 
done.  But  'tis  alius  the  same  ;  whenever  I  gets  talkin"  wi'  he, 
it  all  cums  out  as  smooth  as  crarae.  Fust  time  as  ever  I  seen 
him  since  we  wur  bwys  he  talked  just  as  a  do  now  ;  and  then 
my  poor  mother  died.  Then  he  cum  in  arter  the  funeral,  and 
talked  me  u]i  agen,  till  I  thought  as  I  wiir  to  hev  our  cottage 
and  all  the  land  as  I  could  do  good  by.  But  our  cottage  wur 
took  away,  and  my  'lotment  besides.  Then  cum  last  summer, 
and  'twur  just  the  same  agen  arter  his  talk,  but  I  got  dree 
months  auver  that  job.  And  now  here  I  be  wi'  un  agen, 
a  runnin'  from  the  constable,  and  like  to  be  tuk  up  and 
tran.spworted,  and  'tis  just  the  same — and  I  s'pose  'twill  be 
just  the  same  if  ever  I  gets  back,  and  sees  un,  and  talks  wi' 


THE  LIEUTENANT'S  SENTIMENTS  AND  PEOBLEMS.      455 

tin,  it'  I  be  g%\nne  to  be  hung.  'Tis  a  wimnerful  thing  to  be  a 
so.hollard,  to  be  able  to  make  things  look  all  straight  when 
they  be  ever  so  akkerd  and  nnked." 

And  then  Harry  left  off  rubbing  the  horse's  ears ;  and, 
pulling  the  damp  piece  of  paper  wliich  Tom  had  given  him, 
out  of  his  breeches'  pocket,  proceeded  to  flatten  it  out  ten- 
derly on  the  palm  o{  his  hand,  and  read  it  by  the  light  of  the 
dip,  when  the  landlady  came  to  inform  him  that  the  gentlefolk 
Avanted  him  in  the  kitchen.  So  he  folded  his  treasure  up 
again,  and  went  off  to  the  kitchen.  He  found  Tom  standing 
with  his  back  to  the  fire,  while  the  lieutenant  was  sitting  at 
the  table,  writing  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  which  the  landlady  had 
jiroduced  after  much  hunting  over  of  di'awers.  Tom  began, 
with  some  little  hesitation  : — 

"  Oh  Harry,  I've  been  talking  your  matters  over  with  my 
friend  here,  and  I've  changed  my  mind.  It  won't  do  after 
all  for  you  to  stay  about  at  railway  work,  or  anything  of  that 
sort.  You  see  you  wouldn't  be  safe.  They'd  be  sure  to  trace 
you,  and  you'd  get  into  trouble  about  this  day's  work.  And 
then,  after  aU,  it's  a  very  poor  opening  for  a  young  fellow 
like  you.  Now,  why  shouldn't  you  enlist  into  Mr.  East's 
regiment?  You'll  be  in  his  company,  and  it's  a  splendid 
profession.     What  do  you  say  now  1 " 

East  looked  up  at  poor  Harry,  who  was  quite  taken  aback 
at  this  change  in  his  prospects,  and  could  only  mutter,  that  he 
had  never  turned  his  mind  to  "  sodgerin." 

"  It's  just  the  thing  for  you,"  Tom  went  on.  "You  can 
write  and  keep  accounts,  and  you'll  get  on  famously.  Ask 
!Mr.  East  if  you  won't.  And  don't  you  fear  about  matters  at 
home.  You'll  see  that'll  all  come  right  I'll  pledge  you  my 
wor<l  it  will  and  I'll  take  care  that  you  sh;dl  hear  every- 
tlimg  that  goes  on  there :  and,  depend  upon  it,  it's  your  best 
cliance.  You'll  be  hark  at  Englebouru  as  a  sergeant  in  no 
time,  and  be  able  to  snap  your  fingers  at  them  all.  You'll 
a>me  with  us  to  Steventon  station,  and  take  the  night  train 
to  Lon<lon,  and  then  in  the  morning  go  to  Whitehall,  and 
find  Mr.  East's  sergeant.  He'll  give  you  a  note  to  him,  and 
they'll  send  you  on  to  Chatham,  where  the  regiment  is.  You 
think  it's  tlie  best  thing  for  him,  don't  you  1  "  said  Tom, 
turning  to  East. 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  you'll  do  very  well  if  you  only  keep  steady. 
Here's  a  note  to  the  sergeant,  and  1  shall  be  back  at  Chatham 
in  a  day  or  two  myself." 

Harry  took  the  note  mechanically ;  he  was  quite  unable 
yet  to  make  any  resistance. 

"  And   now   get  somethiiig  to   eat  as  quick  as  you  can, 


456  TOM    BliOWN   AT    OXFORD. 

for  we  oiiglit  to  be  off.     The  hoises  are  all  right,  I  sup 
pose  1 " 

"  Yes,  Master  Tom,"  said  Harry,  with  an  appealing  look. 

"  Where  are  your  coat  and  waistcoat,  Harry  1 " 

"  They  be  in  the  stable,  sir." 

"  In  the  stable  !    Why,  they're  all  wet  then  still  1 " 

"  Oh,  'tis  no  odds  about  that,  Master  Tom." 

*'  No  odds  !  Get  them  in  dii'ectly,  and  put  them  to  dry 
here." 

So  Harry  Winburn  went  off  to  the  stable  to  fetch  his 
clothes. 

"  He's  a  fine  fellow,"  said  East,  getting  up  and  coming  to 
the  fixe ;  "  I've  taken  a  fancy  to  him,  but  he  doesn't  fancy 
enlisting." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  he  has  to  leave  his  sweetheart.  It's  a  sad 
business,  but  it's  the  best  thing  for  him,  and  you'll  see 
he'll  go." 

Tom  was  right.  Poor  Harry  came  in  and  dried  his  clothes, 
and  got  his  supper ;  and  while  he  was  eating  it,  and  all  along 
the  road  afterwards,  till  they  reached  the  station  at  about 
eleven  o'clock,  pleaded  in  his  plain  way  with  Tom  against 
leaving  his  own  country  side.  And  East  listened  silently, 
and  liked  him  better  and  better. 

Tom  argued  with  him  gently,  and  turned  the  matter  round 
on  all  sides,  putting  the  most  hopeful  face  upon  it ;  and,  in 
the  end,  talked  first  himself,  and  then  Harry,  into  the  belief 
that  it  was  the  very  best  thing  that  could  have  happened  to 
him,  and  more  likely  than  any  other  course  of  action  to  bring 
everything  right  between  him  and  all  folk  at  Englebourn. 

So  Harry  got  into  the  train  at  Steventon  in  pretty  good 
heart,  with  his  fare  paid,  and  half-a-sovereign  in  his  pocket, 
more  and  more  impressed  in  his  miud  with  what  a  wonderful 
thing  it  Avas  to  be  "  a  schoUard." 

The  two  friends  rode  back  to  Oxford  at  a  good  pace.  They 
had  both  of  them  quite  enough  to  think  about,  and  were  not 
iu  the  humour  for  talk  had  place  and  time  served,  so  that 
scarce  a  word  passed  between  them  till  they  had  left  their 
horses  at  the  livery  stables,  and  were  walking  through  tho 
silent  streets,  a  few  minutes  before  midnight.  Then  East 
broke  silence. 

"  I  can't  make  out  how  you  do  it.  I'd  give  half-a-y ear's 
pay  to  get  the  way  of  it." 

'•  The  way  of  what  1     What  are  you  talldng  about  ?  " 

"  Why,  your  way  of  shutting  your  eyes,  and  going  m 
blind." 

"  Well,  that's  a  queer  wish  for  a  figliting  man,"  said  Tom, 


THE  IJEUTEN.VNT'S  SENTIMENTS  AND  PROBLEMS.      4.')  7 

laughing.  "  We  always  thought  a  rusher  no  good  at  school, 
ami  that  the  thing  to  learn  "was,  to  go  in  with  your  own  eyea 
open,  and  shut  up  other  people's." 

"  Ah,  but  we  hadn't  cut  our  eye-teeth  then.  I  look  at 
these  things  from  a  professional  point  of  vicAv.  ISIy  business 
is  to  get  fellows  to  shut  thoir  eyes  tight,  and  T  begin  to  think 
you  can't  do  it  as  it  should  be  done,  without  shutting  your 
own  first." 

"  I  don't  take." 

""Why,  look  at  the  way  you  talked  your  convict — I  beg 
your   pardon — your   unfortunate    friend — into    enlistuig    to 
night.     You  talked  as  if  you  believed  every  word  you  were 
saying  to  him." 
^«  So  I  did." 

"  Well,  I  should  like  to  have  you  for  a  recruiting  sergeant, 
if  you  could  only  drop  that  radical  bosh.  If  1  had  had  to  do 
it,  instead  of  enlisting,  he  would  have  gone  straight  off  and 
hung  himself  in  the  stable." 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't  try  your  hand  at  it  then." 

"  Look  again  at  me.  Do  you  think  any  one  but  such  a — 
•well,  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  uncivil — a  headlong  dog 
like  you  coidd  have  got  me  into  such  a  business  as  to  day's  1 
Now  I  want  to  be  able  to  get  other  fellows  to  make  just  such 
fools  of  themselves  as  I've  made  of  myself  to-day.  How  do 
you  do  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  unless  it  is  that  I  can't  help  always  looldng 
at  the  best  side  of  things  myself,  and  so — " 

"  Most  things  haven't  got  a  best  side." 

"Well,  at  the  pretty  good  side,  then." 

"  Nor  a  pretty  good  one." 

"  If  they  haven't  got  a  pretty  good  one,  it  don't  matter 
how  you  look  at  them,  I  should  think." 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  it  does — much.  Still,  I  should  like 
to  be  able  to  make  a  fool  of  myself,  too,  when  I  want — with 
the  view  of  getting  others  to  do  ditto,  of  course." 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  old  fellow ;  but  I  don't  see  my 
way  to  it." 

"  I  shall  talk  to  our  regimental  doctor  about  it,  and  get  put 
through  a  course  of  fool's-diet  before  we  start  for  India." 

"  Flap-doodle,  they  call  it,  what  fools  are  fed  on.  But  it's 
odd  that  you  should  have  broken  out  in  this  place,  when  all 
the  way  home  I've  been  doing  nothing  but  envying  you  youi 
special  talent." 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"  Just  the  opposite  one — the  art  of  falling  on  your  feet 
I  should  like  to  exchange  with  you." 


4:58  TOM   BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"  You'd  make  a  precious  bad  bargain  of  it,  then." 

"  There's  twelve  striking.     I  must  knock  in.     Good  night. 

You'll  be  round  to  breakfast  at  nine." 

"  All  right.     I  believe  in  your  breakfasts,  rather,"  said 

East,  as  they  shook  hands  at  the  gate  of  St.  Ambrose,  into 

which  Tom  disappeared,  while  tlie  lieutenant  strolled  back  to 

the  Mitre. 


CHAPTEE  XLII. 

THIRD    YEAR. 

East  returned  to  his  regiment  in  a  few  days,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  month  the  gallant  101st  embarked  for  India. 
Tom  wrote  several  loiters  to  the  lieutenant,  inclosing  notes 
to  Harry,  with  gleanings  of  news  from  Englebourn,  where 
his  escape  on  the  night  of  the  riot  had  been  a  nine-days' , 
wonder  ;  and,  now  that  he  was  fairly  "  'listed,"  and  out  of 
the  way,  public  opinion  was  beginning  to  turn  in  his  favour. 
In  due  course  a  letter  arrived  from  the  lieutenant,  dated  Cape 
Town,  giving  a  prosperous  account  of  the  voyage  so  far.  East 
did  not  say  much  about  "  your  convict,"  as  he  still  insisted  on 
calling  Harry ;  but  the  little  he  did  say  was  very  satisfactory, 
and  Tom  sent  off  this  part  of  the  letter  to  Katie,  to  whom  he 
had  confided  the  whole  story,  entreating  her  to  make  the  best 
use  of  it  in  the  interests  of  the  young  soldier.  And,  after 
this  out-of-the-way  beginning,  he  settled  down  into  the  usual 
routine  of  his  Oxford  life. 

The  change  in  his  opinions  and  objects  of  interest  brought 
him  now  into  more  intimate  relations  with  a  set  of  whom  he 
had  as  yet  seen  little.  For  want  of  a  better  name,  we  may 
call  them  "  the  party  of  progress."  At  their  parties,  instead 
of  practical  jokes,  and  boisterous  mirth,  and  talk  of  boats, 
and  bats,  and  guns,  and  horses,  the  highest  and  deepest 
questions  of  morals,  and  politics,  and  metaphysics,  were  dis- 
cussed, and  discussed  with  a  freshness  and  enthusiasm  which 
is  apt  to  wear  off  when  doing  has  to  take  the  place  of  talking, 
but  has  a  strange  charm  of  its  own  while  it  lasts,  and  is 
looked  back  to  with  loving  regi'et  by  those  for  whom  it  is  no 
longer  a  possibility. 

With  this  set  Tom  soon  fraternized,  and  drank  in  many 
new  ideas,  and  took  to  himself  also  many  new  crotchets 
besides  those  with  which  he  was  already  weighted.  Almost 
all  his  new  acquaintance  were  Liberal  in  politics,  but  a  few 
only  v.'ere  read_y  to  go  all  lengths  with  him.     They  were  all 


TIIIKD    YEAR.  450 

Union  men,  and  Tom,  of  course,  followed  the  fashion,  and 
soon  propounded  theories  in  that  institution  which  gained 
him  the  name  of  Chartist  Brown. 

There  was  a  strung  mixture  of  self-conceit  in  it  all.  He 
had  a  kind  of  idea  that  he  had  discovered  something  which 
it  was  creditahle  to  have  discovered,  and  that  it  was  a  very 
fine  thing  to  have  all  these  feelings  for,  and  sympathies  with, 
"  the  masses,"  and  to  believe  in  democracy,  and  "  glorious 
humanity,"  and  "  a  good  time  coming,"  and  I  know  not  what 
other  big  matters.  And,  although  it  startled  and  pained  him 
at  first  to  hear  himself  called  ugly  names,  which  lie  had 
hated  and  despised  from  his  youth  up,  and  to  know  that 
many  of  his  old  acquaintance  looked  upon  him,  not  simply 
as  a  madman,  but  as  a  madman  with  snobbish  proclivities ; 
yet,  when  the  first  plunge  was  over,  there  was  a  good  deal  on 
the  other  hand  which  tickled  his  vanity,  and  was  far  from 
being  unpleasant. 

To  do  him  justice,  however,  the  disagreeables  were  such 
that,  had  there  not  been  some  genuine  belief  at  the  bottom, 
he  would  certainly  have  been  headed  back  very  speedily  into 
the  fold  of  political  and  social  orthodoxy.  As  it  was,  amidst 
the  cloud  of  sophisms,  and  platitudes,  and  big  one-sided  ideas 
half-mastered,  which  filled  his  thoughts  and  overflowed  in 
his  talk,  there  was  growing  in  him  and  taking  firmer  hold  on 
him  daily  a  true  and  broad  sympathy  for  men  as  men,  and 
especially  for  poor  men  as  poor  men,  and  a  righteous  and 
burning  hatred  against  all  laws,  customs,  or  notions,  which, 
accorduig  to  his  light,  either  were  or  seemed  to  be  settuig 
aside,  or  putting  anything  else  in  the  place  of,  or  above  the 
man.  It  was  with  him  the  natural  outgrowth  of  the  child's 
and  boy's  training  (tliougli  his  father  would  have  been  much 
astonishe-d  to  be  told  so),  and  the  instincts  of  those  early  days 
were  now  getting  rapidly  set  into  habits  and  faiths,  and  be- 
coming a  part  of  himself 

In  this  stage  of  his  life,  as  in  so  many  former  ones,  Tom 
got  great  help  from  his  intercourse  with  Hardy,  now  the 
rising  tutor  of  the  college.  Haidy  was  travelling  much  the 
same  road  himself  as  our  hero,  but  was  somewhat  further  on, 
and  had  come  into  it  from  a  difi'erent  couutry,  and  through 
quite  other  obstacles.  Their  early  lives  had  been  so  different; 
and,  both  by  nature  and  from  long  and  severe  self-restranit 
and  discipline,  Hardy  was  much  the  less  impetuous  and  do- 
jnoiistrative  of  the  two.  He  did  not  rush  out,  therefore  (as 
Tom  was  too  much  inclined  to  do),  the  moment  he  had  seized 
hold  of  the  end  of  a  new  idea  which  he  felt  to  be  good  for 
him  and  what  Ae  wanted,  and  brandish  it  in  the  face  of  all 


460  TOM    BEOWN   AT    OXFOllD. 

comers,  and  think  himself  a  traitor  to  the  truth  if  he  wasn't 
trying  to  make  everybody  he  met  with  eat  it.  Hardy,  on 
the  contrary,  wonkl  test  his  new  idea,  and  turn  it  over,  and 
prove  it  as  far  as  he  could,  and  try  to  get  hold  of  the  whole 
of  it,  and  ruthlessly  strip  off  any  tinsel  or  rose-pink  sentiment 
with  which  it  might  happen  to  be  mixed  up. 

Often  and  often  did  Tom  suffer  under  this  severe  method, 
and  rebel  against  it,  and  accuse  his  friend,  both  to  his  face 
and  in  his  own  secret  thouglits,  of  coldness,  and  want  of 
faith,  and  all  manner  of  other  sins  of  omission  and  commis- 
sion. In  the  end,  however,  he  generally  came  round,  with 
more  or  less  of  rebellion,  according  to  the  severity  of  the 
treatment,  and  acknowledge  that,  when  Hardy  brought  him 
down  from  riding  the  high  horse,  it  was  not  without  good 
reason,  and  that  the  dust  in  which  he  was  rolled  was  always 
most  wholesome  dust. 

For  instance,  there  was  no  phrase  more  frequently  in  the 
mouths  of  tlie  party  of  progress  than  "  the  good  cause."  It 
was  a  fine  big-sounding  phrase,  which  coidd  be  used  with 
great  effect  in  perorations  of  speeches  at  the  Union,  and  was 
sufHciently  indefinite  to  be  easily  defended  from  ordinary 
attacks,  while  it  saved  him  who  used  it  the  trouble  of  ascer- 
taining accurately  for  himself  or  settling  for  his  hearers  what 
it  really  did  mean.  But,  however  satisfactory  it  might  be 
before  promiscuous  audiences,  and  so  long  as  vehement 
assertion  or  declaration  was  all  that  was  required  to  uphold 
it,  this  same  "  good  cause  "  was  liable  to  come  to  much  grief 
when  it  had  to  get  itself  defined.  Hardy  was  particularly 
given  to  persecution  on  this  subject,  when  he  could  get  Tom, 
and,  perliaps,  one  or  two  others,  in  a  quiet  room  by  themselves. 
While  professing  the  utmost  sympathy  for  "  the  good  cause," 
and  a  ho^je  as  strong  as  theu-s  that  all  its  enemies  might  find 
themselves  suspended  to  lamp-posts  as  soon  as  possible,  he 
would  pursue  it  into  corners  from  wliich  escape  was  most 
difficult,  asking  it  and  its  supporters  what  it  exactly  was,  and 
driving  them  from  one  cloud-land  to  another,  and  from  "  the 
good  cause  "  to  the  "  people's  cause,"  "  the  cause  of  labour," 
and  other  like  troublesome  definitions,  until  the  great  idea 
seemed  to  have  no  shape  or  existence  any  longer  even  in  their 
own  brains. 

But  Hardy's  persecution,  provoking  as  it  was  for  the  time, 
never  went  to  the  undermining  of  any  real  conviction  in  the 
minds  of  his  juniors,  or  tlie  shaking  of  anything  which  did 
not  need  shaking,  but  only  helped  them  to  clear  their  ideas 
and  brains  as  to  what  they  were  talking  and  thinking  about, 
and  gave  them  glimjDses — soon  clouded  over  again,  but  most 


THIKD   YEAK.  40 1 

useful,  nevertheless — of  the  truth,  that  there  were  a  good 
many  knotty  questions  to  be  solved  before  a  man  could  be 
quite  sure  that  he  had  found  out  the  way  to  set  the  world 
thoroughly  to  rights,  and  heal  all  the  ills  that  Hesh  is  heir  to. 

Hardy  treated  another  of  his  friend's  most  favourite  notions 
even  with  less  respect  than  this  one  of  "  the  good  cause." 
Democracy,  that  "universal  democracy,"  which  their  favourite 
author  had  recently  declared  to  be  "an  inevitable  fact  of  the 
days  in  which  we  live,"  was,  perhaps,  on  the  whole  the  pet 
i<lea  of  the  small  section  of  liberal  young  Oxford,  with  whon» 
Tom  was  now  hand  and  glove.  They  lost  no  opportunity  o\ 
worshipping  it,  and  doing  battle  for  it ;  and,  indeed,  did  most 
of  them  very  truly  believe  that  that  state  of  the  world  which 
this  universal  democracy  was  to  bring  about,  and  which  was 
coming  no  man  could  say  how  soon,  was  to  be  in  fact  that 
age  of  peace  and  good-will  which  men  had  dreamt  of  in  all 
times,  when  the  lion  .should  lie  down  with  the  kid,  and  nation 
should  not  vex  nation  any  more. 

After  hearing  something  to  this  effect  from  Tom  on  several 
occasions.  Hardy  cunningly  lured  him  to  his  rooms  on  the 
pretence  of  talking  over  the  prospects  of  the  boat  club,  and 
then,  having  seated  him  by  the  fire,  which  he  himself  pro- 
ceeded to  assault  gently  with  the  poker,  propounded  suddenly 
to  him  the  question, 

"  Brown,  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  mean  by  '  de- 
mocracy ? ' " 

Tom  at  once  saw  the  trap  into  which  he  had  fallen,  and 
made  several  efforts  to  break  away,  but  unsuccessfully ;  and, 
being  seated  to  a  cup  of  tea,  -and  allowed  to  smoke,  was  then 
and  there  grievously  oppressed,  and  mangled,  and  sat  upon, 
by  his  oldest  and  best  friend.  He  took  his  ground  carefully, 
and  propounded  only  what  he  felt  sure  that  Hardy  himself 
would  at  once  accept, — what  no  man  of  any  worth  could 
possibly  take  exception  to.  "  He  meant  much  more,"  he  said, 
"  than  this  ;  but  for  the  present  purpose  it  would  be  enough 
for  him  to  say  that,  whatever  else  it  might  mean,  democracy 
in  his  mouth  always  meant  that  every  man  should  have  a 
share  in  the  government  of  his  country." 

Hardy,  seeming  to  acquiesce,  and  making  a  sudden  change 
in  the  subject  of  their  talk,  decoyed  his  innocent  guest  away 
from  the  thought  of  democracy  for  a  few  minutes,  by  holding 
up  to  him  the  flag  of  hero-worship,  in  which  worship  Tom 
was,  of  course,  a  sedulous  believer.  Then,  having  involved 
him  in  most  difficult  country,  his  persecutor  opened  fire  upon 
hiui  from  masked  batteries  of  the  most  deadly  kind,  the  gima 
being  all  from  the  armoury  of  his  own  prophets. 


4G2  TO:^I   BROWN   a.t  oxfort>. 

"  Yon  long  for  the  rule  of  the  ablest  man,  everywhere,  at 
all  times  1  To  find  your  ablest  man,  and  then  give  him  power, 
and  obey  him — that  you  hold  to  be  about  the  highest  act  of 
wisdom  which  a  nation  can  be  capable  of?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  you  know  you  believe  that  too,  Hardy,  just  a.? 
firmly  as  I  do." 

"  I  hope  so.  But  then,  how  about  our  universal  democracy 
and  every  man  having  a  share  in  the  government  of  his 
country  1 " 

Tom  felt  that  his  flank  was  turned  ;  in  fact,  the  contrast  of 
his  two  beliefs  had  never  struck  him  vividly  before,  and  he 
was  consequently  much  confused.  But  Hardy  went  on  tapi)ing 
a  big  coal  gently  with  the  poker,  and  gave  him  time  to  recover 
himself  and  collect  liis  thoughts. 

"  I  don't  mean,  of  course,  that  every  man  is  to  have  an 
actual  share  in  the  goverimient,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  But  every  man  is  somehow  to  have  a  share ;  and,  if  not 
an  actual  one,  I  can't  see  what  the  proposition  conies  to." 

"  I  call  it  having  a  share  in  the  government  when  a  man 
has  share  in  saying  who  shall  govern  him." 

"  Well,  you'll  own  that's  a  very  different  thing.  But,  let's 
see  ;  will  that  find  our  wisest  governor  for  us — letting  all  the 
foolishest  men  in  the  nation  have  a  say  as  to  who  he  is  to  be  ?" 

"Come  now,  Hardy,  I've  heard  you  say  that  you  are  for 
manhood  suffrage." 

"  That's  another  question  ;  you  let  in  another  idea  there. 
At  present  we  are  considering  whether  the  vox  pnpuli  is  the 
best  test  for  finding  your  best  man.  I'm  afraid  all  history  is 
against  you." 

"  That's  a  good  joke.      Now,  there  T  defy  you.  Hardy." 

"  Begin  at  the  beginning,  then,  and  let  us  see." 

"  I  suppose  you'll  say,  then,  that  the  Egyptian  and  Baby- 
lonian empires  were  better  than  the  little  Jewish  republic." 

"  Republic  !  well,  let  that  pass.  But  T  never  heard  that 
the  Jews  elected  Moses,  or  any  of  the  judges." 

"  Well,  never  mind  the  Jews  ;  they're  an  exceptional  case  : 
you  can't  argue  from  them." 

"  I  don't  admit  that.  I  believe  just  the  contrary.  But 
go  on." 

"Well,  then,  what  do  you  say  to  the  glorious  Greek  re^ 
publics,  \vith  Athens  at  the  head  of  them  ?" 

"  I  say  that  no  nation  ever  treated  their  best  men  so  badly. 
I  see  I  must  put  on  a  lecture  in  Aristophanes  for  your  special 
benefit.  Vain,  irritable,  slialjow,  suspicious  old  D(>mns,  with 
bis  two  oboli  in  his  cheek,  and  doutiting  only  between  Cleon 
and  the  sausage-seller,  which  he  shall  choose  for  h\s  wisest 


THIRD   YEAR.  4G3 

man  — not  to  govern,  but  to  serve  his  whims  and  caprices 
You  must  call  another  witness,  I  think." 

"  But  that's  a  caricature." 

"  Take  the  picture,  then,  out  of  Thucydides,  Plato,  Xeno- 
plion,  how  you  \vill — you  won't  mend  the  matter  much.  You 
^shouldn't  go  so  fast,  Brown  ;  you  won't  mind  my  saying  so,  I 
know.  You  don't  get  clear  in  your  own  mind  before  you 
piich  into  every  one  who  comes  across  you,  and  so  do  your 
own  side  (which  I  admit  is  mostly  the  right  one)  more  harm 
than  good." 

Tom  couldn't  stand  beii^.g  put  do^\^l  so  summarily,  and 
fought  over  the  ground  from  one  country  to  another,  from  Home 
to  the  United  States,  with  all  the  arguments  he  could  muster, 
but  with  little  success.  That  unfortunate  first  admission  of 
liis,  he  felt  it  throughout,  like  a  mill-stone  round  his  neck, 
and  could  not  help  admitting  to  himself,  when  he  left,  that 
there  was  a  good  deal  in  Hardy's  concluding  remark, — "  You'll 
find  it  rather  a  tough  business  to  get  your  '  univei-sal  demo- 
cracy,' and  '  government  by  the  wisest,'  to  pull  together  in 
one  coach." 

Notwithstanding  all  such  occasional  reverses  and  cold  baths, 
however,  Tom  went  on  strengthening  himself  in  his  new 
opinions,  and  maintaining  them  with  all  the  zeal  of  a  convert. 
The  shelves  of  his  bookcase,  and  the  walls  of  his  rooms,  soon 
began  to  show  signs  of  the  change  which  was  taking  place  in 
his  ways  of  looking  at  men  and  things.  Hitherto  a  framed 
engraving  of  George  ITT.  had  hung  over  his  mantel-piece  ; 
but  early  in  this,  his  third  year,  the  frame  had  disappeared 
for  a  few  days,  and  when  it  reappeared,  the  solemn  face  of 
John  Milton  looked  oiit  from  it,  while  the  honest  monarch  had 
retired  uito  a  portfolio.  A  facsimile  of  ^lagna  Charta  soon 
displaced  a  large  coloured  print  of  "A  Day  with  the  Pyche- 
ley;"  and  soon  afterwards  the  death-warrant  of  Charles  I. 
with  its  grim  and  resolute  rows  of  signatures  and  seals,  ap- 
I^eared  on  the  wall  in  a  place  of  honour,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Milton. 

Squire  Brown  was  passing  through  Oxford,  and  paid  his 
son  a  visit  soon  after  this  last  an-angcment  had  been  com 
pleted.  He  dined  in  hall,  at  the  high  table,  being  still  a 
inember  of  the  coUege,  and  afterwards  came  with  Hanly  to 
Tom's  rooms  to  have  a  quiet  glass  of  wine,  and  spend  the 
evening  with  his  son  and  a  few  of  liis  friends,  who  had  been 
asked  to  meet  "  the  governor." 

Tom  had  a  struggle  with  himself  whether  ho  should  not 
remove  the  death  warrant  into  his  bedroom  for  the  evening, 
and  had  actually  taken  it  dowu  with  this  view ;  but  in  the 


4G4  TOM    BKOWN   AT    OXFOKD. 

euJ  he  could  not  stomach  such  a  backsliding,  and  so  restored 
it  to  its  place.  "  I  have  never  concealed  my  opinions  from 
my  father,"  he  thought,  "  though  I  don't  think  he  quite  knows 
what  they  are.  But  if  he  doesn't,  he  ought,  and  the  sooner 
the  better.  I  should  be  a  sneak  to  try  to  hide  them.  I  know 
he  won't  like  it,  but  he  is  always  just  and  fair,  and  will  make 
allowances.     At  any  rate,  up  it  goes  again." 

And  so  he  re-hung  the  death-warrant,  but  with  the  devout 
secret  hope  that  his  fatlier  might  not  see  it. 

The  wine-party  went  off  admirably.  The  men  were  nice, 
gentlemaidy,  intelligent  fellows ;  and  the  squire,  who  had 
been  carefully  planted  by  Tom  with  his  back  to  the  death- 
warrant,  enjoyed  himself  very  mucL  At  last  they  all  went, 
except  Hardy  ;  and  now  the  nervous  time  approached.  For 
a  short  time  longer  the  three  sat  at  the  wine-table,  while 
the  squire  enlarged  upon  the  groat  improvement  in  young 
men,  and  the  habits  of  the  University,  especially  in  the 
matter  of  drinkuig.  Tom  had  only  opened  three  bottles 
of  port.  In  his  time  the  men  would  have  drunk  certainly 
not  less  than  a  bottle  a  man  ;  and  other  like  remarks  he  made, 
as  he  sipped  his  coffee,  and  then,  pushing  back  his  chair,  said, 
"  Well,  Tom,  hadn't  your  servant  better  clear  away,  and  then 
we  can  draw  round  the  fire,  and  have  a  talk." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  take  a  turn  while  he  is  clearing  ? 
There's  the  Martyrs'  Memorial  you  haven't  seen." 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  know  the  place  well  enough,  I  don't 
come  to  walk  about  in  the  dark.  We  sha'n't  be  in  your  man's 
way." 

And  so  Tom's  scout  came  in  to  clear  away,  took  out  the 
extra  leaves  of  his  table,  put  on  the  cloth,  and  laid  tea.  Dur- 
ing these  operations  Mr.  Brown  was  stauduig  with  his  back 
to  the  fire,  looking  about  him  as  he  talked  ;  when  there  was 
more  space  to  move  in,  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down,  and 
very  soon  took  to  remarking  the  furniture  and  arrangements 
of  the  room.  One  after  another  the  pictures  came  under  his 
notice, — most  of  them  escaped  without  comment,  the  squire 
siuiply  pausing  a  moment,  and  then  taking  up  his  walk  again. 
IVIagna  Charta  drew  forth  his  hearty  approval.  It  was  a 
capital  notion  U>  hang  such  things  on  your  walls,  instead  of 
bad  prints  of  steeple-chases,  or  trash  of  that  sort.  "All, 
here's  something  else  of  the  same  kind.  Why,  Tom,  what's 
this  1"  said  the  squire,  as  he  paused  before  the  death-warrant. 
There  was  a  moment  or  two  of  dead  silence,  while  the  srjuire's 
eye  ran  down  the  names,  from  Jo  :  Bradshaw  to  Miles  Corbet ; 
and  then  he  turned,  and  came  and  sat  down  opposite  to  his 
son.     Ton:  cx^pected  hii,  father  to  be  vexed,  but  was  not  the 


THIRD    YEAR.  4G5 

least  prepared  for  the  tone  of  pain,  and  sorrow,  and  anger,  in 
wlticli  lie  tirst  inquired,  and  then  remonstrated. 

For  some  time  past  the  squire  and  his  son  had  not  felt  so 
comfortable  together  as  of  old.  Mr.  Brown  had  been  annoyed 
by  much  that  Tom  had  done  in  the  case  of  Harry  Winburn, 
though  he  did  not  know  all.  There  had  sprung  up  a  barrier 
somehow  or  other  between  them,  neither  of  them  knew  how. 
They  had  often  felt  embarrassed  at  being  left  alone  together 
during  the  last  year,  and  found  that  there  were  certain  topics 
which  they  could  not  talk  upon,  which  they  avoided  by  mutual 
consent.  Every  now  and  then  the  constraint  and  embarrass- 
ment fell  off  for  a  short  time,  for  at  bottom  they  loved  and 
appreciated  one  another  heartily  ;  but  the  divergences  in  their 
thoughts  and  habits  had  become  very  serious,  and  seemed 
likely  to  increase  rather  than  not.  They  felt  keenly  the  chasm 
between  the  two  generations ;  as  tliey  looked  at  one  another 
from  the  opposite  banks,  each  in  his  secret  heart  blamed  the 
other  in  great  measure  for  that  which  was  the  faidt  of  neither. 
Mixed  with  the  longings  which  each  felt  for  a  better  under- 
standing was  enough  of  reserve  and  indignation  to  prevent 
them  from  coming  to  it.  The  discovery  of  their  differences 
was  too  recent,  and  they  were  too  much  alike  m  character  and 
temper,  for  either  to  make  large  enough  allowances  for,  or  to 
be  really  tolerant  of  the  other. 

This  was  the  first  occasion  on  which  they  had  come  to  out- 
spoken and  serious  difference  ;  and,  though  the  collision  had 
been  exceedingly  painful  to  both,  yet,  when  they  parted  for 
the  night,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  the  ice  had  been 
thoroughly  broken.  Before  his  father  left  the  room,  Tom  had 
torn  the  facsimile  of  the  death-warrant  out  of  its  frame,  and 
put  it  in  the  fire,  protesting,  however,  at  th-e  same  time,  that, 
though  "  he  did  this  out  of  deference  to  his  father,  and  was 
deeply  grieved  at  having  given  him  pain,  he  could  not  and 
would  not  give  up  his  honest  convictions,  or  pretend  that  they 
were 'changed,  or  even  shaken." 

The  squire  walked  back  to  his  hotel  deeply  moved.  Who 
can  wonder  1  He  was  a  man  full  of  living  and  vehement 
convictions.  One  of  his  early  recollections  had  been  the 
arrival  in  England  of  the  news  of  the  beheading  of  Louis 
XVI.  and  the  doings  of  the  reign  of  terror.  He  had  been 
bred  in  the  times  when  it  was  held  impossible  for  a  gentleman 
or  a  Christian  to  hold  such  views  as  his  son  had  been  main- 
taining, and,  like  many  of  the  noblest  Englishmen  of  his  time 
ha.d  gone  with  and  accepted  the  creed  of  the  day. 

Tom  remained  behind,  dejected  and  melanclioly  ;  now  ac- 
cusing his  father  of  injustice  and  bigotry,  now  longing  to  ^o 

n  a 


4GG  TOM  BROTVN  AT  OXFOKD. 

after  him,  and  give  up  everything.  What  were  all  his  opinions 
and  convictions  compared  with  his  father's  conhdence  and 
love  1  At  breakfast  the  next  morning,  however,  after  each  of 
them  had  had  time  for  thinking  over  what  had  passed,  they 
met  with  a  cordiality  wliich  was  as  pleasant  to  each  as  it  waa 
unlooked  for  ;  and  from  this  visit  of  his  father  to  him  at 
Oxford  Tom  dated  a  new  and  more  satisfactory  epoch  in  their 
intercourse. 

The  fact  had  begun  to  dawn  on  the  squu-e  that  the  world 
had  changed  a  good  deal  since  his  time.  He  saw  that  young 
men  were  much  improved  in  some  ways,  and  acknowledged 
the  fact  heartily  ;  on  the  other  hand,  they  had  taken  up  with 
a  lot  of  new  notions  which  he  could  not  understand,  and 
thought  mischievous  and  bad.  Perhujis  Tom  might  get  over 
them  as  he  got  to  be  older  and  wiser,  and  in  the  meantime  he 
must  take  the  evil  with  the  good.  At  any  rate  he  was  too  fair 
a  man  to  try  to  dragoon  his  son  out  of  anything  which  he 
really  believed.  Tom  on  his  part  gratefully  accepted  the 
change  in  his  father's  manner,  and  took  all  means  of  showing 
Ids  gratitude  by  consulting  and  talking  freely  to  him  on  such 
subjects  as  they  could  agree  upon,  which  were  numerous, 
keeping  in  the  back-ground  the  questions  which  had  provoked 
painful  discussions  between  them.  By  degrees  these  even 
could  be  tenderly  approached  ;  and,  now  that  they  were  ap- 
proached in  a  different  spirit,  the  honest  beliefs  of  the  father 
and  son  no  longer  looked  so  monstrous  to  one  another,  the  hard 
and  sharp  outlines  began  to  wear  olf,  and  the  views  of  each  of 
them  to  be  modified.  Tims,  bit  by  bit,  by  a  slow  but  sure 
process,  a  better  understanding  than  ever  was  re-established 
between  them. 

This  beginning  of  a  better  state  of  things  in  his  relations 
with  his  fatlier  consoled  Tom  for  many  other  matters  that 
seemed  to  go  wrong  with  him,  and  was  a  constant  bit  of  bright 
sky  to  turn  to  when  the  rest  of  his  horizon  looked  dark  and 
dreary,  as  it  did  often  enough. 

For  it  proved  a  very  trying  j'ear  to  him,  this  his  third  and 
last  year  at  the  University  ;  a  year  full  of  large  dreams  and 
small  performances,  of  unfulfilled  hopes,  and  struggles  to  set 
himself  right,  ending  ever  more  surely  in  failure  and  dis- 
appointment. The  common  pursuits  of  the  place  had  lost 
their  freshness,  and  with  it  much  of  their  charm.  He  was 
beginning  to  feel  himself  in  a  cage,  and  to  beat  against  the 
bars  of  it. 

Often,  in  spite  of  all  his  natural  hopefulness,  his  heart 
seemed  to  sicken  and  turn  cold,  without  any  apparent  reason  ; 
his  oM  pursuits  palled  on  him,  and  he  scarcely  cared  to  turn 


THIKD    YEAR.  407 

to  new  ones.  Wliat  was  it  that  made  life  so  Llank  to  him  at 
these  times?  How  was  it  that  he  could  not  keep  the  spirit 
within  him  alive  and  warm  ? 

It  was  easier  to  ask  siich  questions  than  to  get  an  answer. 
Was  it  not  this  place  he  was  living  in,  and  the  ways  of  it  1 
No,  for  the  place  and  its  ways  were  the  same  as  ever,  and  his 
own  way  of  life  in  it  better  than  ever  before.  Was  it  the 
want  of  sight  or  tidings  of  Mary  1  Sometimes  he  thought  so. 
and  then  cast  the  thought  away  as  treason.  His  love  for  her 
was  ever  sinking  deeper  into  him,  and  raising  and  purifying 
liim.  Light  and  strength  and  life  came  from  that  source  ; 
craven  weariness  and  coldness  of  heart,  come  from  whence 
they  might,  were  not  from  that  quarter.  But  precious  as  his 
love  was  to  him,  and  deeply  as  it  affected  his  whole  life,  he 
felt  that  there  must  be  something  beyond  it — that  its  full 
satisfaction  would  not  be  enough  for  him.  Tlie  bed  was  too 
narrow  for  a  man  to  stretch  himself  on.  Wbat  he  was  in 
search  of  must  underlie  and  embrace  his  human  love,  and 
support  it.  Beyond  and  above  all  private  and  personal  desires 
and  hopes  and  longings,  he  was  conscious  of  a  restless  crav- 
ing and  feeling  about  after  something  which  he  could  not 
grasp,  and  yet  which  was  not  avoiding  him,  which  seemed 
to  be  mysteriously  laying  hold  of  him  and  surrounding 
him. 

The  routine  of  chapels,  and  lectures,  and  reading  for  degree, 
boating,  cricketing,  Union-debating — all  well  enough  in  their 
way — left  this  vacuum  unfilled.  There  was  a  great  outer 
visible  world,  the  problems  and  puzzles  of  which  were  rising 
before  him  and  haunting  liim  more  and  more ;  and  a  great 
inner  and  invisible  world  opening  round  him  in  awful  depth. 
He  seemed  to  be  standing  on  the  brink  of  each — now,  shiver- 
ing and  helpless,  feeling  like  an  atom  about  to  be  whirled  into 
the  great  flood  and  carried  he  knew  not  where — now,  ready 
to  plunge  in  and  take  his  part,  full  of  hope  and  belief  that 
he  was  meant  to  buffet  in  the  strength  of  a  man  with  the  seen 
and  the  unseen,  and  to  be  subdued  by  neither. 

In  such  a  j'ear  as  this  a  bit  of  steady,  bright  blue  sky  was 
a  boon  beyond  all  price,  and  so  he  felt  it  to  be.  And  it  was 
not  only  with  his  father  that  Tom  regained  lost  ground  in  this 
year.  He  was  in  a  state  of  mind  in  which  he  could  not  bear 
to  neglect  or  lose  any  particle  of  human  sympathy,  and  so  he 
turned  to  old  friendships,  and  revived  the  correspondence  with 
several  of  his  old  school-fellows,  and  particularly  with  Arthur, 
to  the  great  delight  of  the  latter,  wlio  had  mourned  bitterly 
orer  the  few  half-yearly  lines,  all  he  had  got  from  Tom  of 
late,  in  answer  to  his  own  letters,  which  had  themselves,  under 
H  H  2 


4G8  TOM    BROWK    AT    OXFOKD. 

the  weight  of  neglect,  gradually  dwindled  down  to  mere  fornial 
matters.  A  specimen  of  the  later  correspondence  may  fitly 
close  the  chapter  : — 

"St.  Ambrose. 
"  Dear  Geordie, — I  can  hardly  pardon  you  for  having 
gone  to  Cambridge,  though  you  have  got  a  Trinity  scholar- 
ship— which  I  suppose  is,  on  the  whole,  quite  as  good  a  thing 
as  anything  of  the  sort  you  could  have  got  up  here.  I  had  so 
looked  forward  to  having  you  here  though,  and  now  I  feel 
that  we  shall  probably  scarcely  ever  meet.  You  will  go  your 
way  and  I  mine ;  and  one  alters  so  quickly,  and  gets  into  such 
strange  new  grooves,  that  unless  one  sees  a  man  about  once  a 
week  at  least,  you  may  be  just  like  strangers  when  you  are 
thrown  together  again.  If  you  had  come  up  here  it  would 
have  been  ail  right,  and  we  should  have  gone  on  all  through 
life  as  we  were  when  I  left  school,  and  as  I  know  we  should 
be  again  in  no  time  if  yon  had  come  here.     But  now,  who  can 

tein 

"  What  makes  me  think  so  much  of  this  is  a  visit  of  a  few 
days  that  East  paid  me  just  before  his  regiment  went  to  India. 
T  feel  that  if  he  hadn't  done  it,  and  we  had  not  met  till  he 
came  back — years  hence  perhaps — we  should  never  have 
been  to  one  another  what  we  shall  be  now.  The  break  would 
have  been  too  great.  Now  it's  all  right.  You  would  have 
so  liked  to  see  the  old  fellow  grown  into  a  man,  but  not  a 
bit  altered — just  the  quiet,  old  way,  pooh-poohing  you,  and 
pretending  to  care  for  nothing,  but  ready  to  cut  the  nose  off 
his  face,  or  go  through  fire  and  water  for  you  at  a  pinch, 
if  you'll  only  let  him  go  his  own  way  about  it,  and  have 
his  grumble,  and  say  that  he  does  it  all  from  the  worst 
possible  motives. 

"  But  we  must  try  not  to  lose  hold  of  one  another,  Geordie. 
It  would  be  a  bitter  day  to  me  if  1  thought  anything  of  the 
kind  could  ever  happen  again.  We  must  write  more  to  one 
another.  I've  been  awfully  lazy,  I  know,  about  it  for  this 
last  year  and  more  ;  but  then  I  always  thought  you  would  be 
coming  up  here,  and  so  that  it  didn't  matter  much.  But  now 
I  will  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  write  to  you  about  '  my 
sc^cret  thoughts,  my  works  and  ways  ; '  and  you  must  do  it  too. 
If  we  can  only  tide  over  the  next  year  or  two  we  shall  get  mto 
plain  sailing,  and  I  suppose  it  will  all  go  right  then.  At 
least,  I  can't  believe  that  one  is  likely  to  have  many  such  up- 
and-down  years  in  one's  life  as  the  last  two.  If  one  is,  good- 
ness knows  where  I  shall  end.  You  know  the  outline  of  what 
has  happened  to  me  from  my  letters,  and  the  talks  we  have 
hid  in  uiy  Hying  visits  to  the  old  school;  but  you  haven't  f 


I 


THTl^n    '\T.AR.  4ri9 

notion  of  the  troubles  of  mind  I've  been  in,  and  the  c]iaii,L,'C3 
I've  gone  through.  I  can  hardly  believe  it  mj'self  when  I 
look  back.  However,  I'm  quite  sure  I  have  got  on;  tliat's 
my  great  comfort.  It  is  a  strange  blind  sort  of  world,  that's  a 
fact,  with  lots  of  blind  alleys,  down  which  you  go  blundering 
in  the  fog  after  some  seedy  gas-light,  which  you  take  for  the 
sun  till  you  run  against  the  wall  at  the  end,  and  find  out  that 
the  light  is  a  gas-light,  and  that  there's  no  thoroughfare.  Ihit 
for  all  that  one  does  get  on.  You  get  to  know  the  sun's  light 
better  and  better,  and  to  keep  out  of  the  blind  alleys  ;  and  I  am 
surer  and  surer  every  day,  that  tliere's  always  sunlight  enough 
for  every  honest  fellow — though  I  didn't  think  so  a  few 
months  back — and  a  good  sound  road  under  his  feet,  if  he 
will  only  step  out  on  it. 

"Talking  of  blind  alleys  puts  me  in  mind  of  your  last. 
Aren't  you  going  doA\Ti  a  blind  alley,  or  something  worse  ? 
There's  no  wall  to  bring  you  up,  that  I  can  see,  down  the 
turn  you've  taken  ;  and  then,  what's  the  practical  use  of  it 
all  1  What  good  would  you  do  to  yourself,  or  any  one  else,  if 
you  could  get  to  the  end  of  it  ?  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  flincy, 
1  confess,  what  you  think  will  come  of  speculating  about 
necessity  and  free  will.  I  only  know  tliat  I  can  hold  out  my 
hand  before  me,  and  can  move  it  to  the  right  or  left,  despite  of 
all  powers  in  heaven  or  earth.  As  I  sit  liere  writing  to  you 
I  can  let  into  my  heart,  and  give  the  reins  to,  all  sorts  of 
devils"  passions,  or  to  the  Spirit  of  God.  Well,  that's  euough 
for  me.  I  hiov)  it  of  myself,  and  I  believe  you  know  it  of 
yourself,  and  everybody  knows  it  of  themselves  or  himself; 
and  why  you  can't  be  satisfied  with  that,  passes  my  compre- 
heusion.  As  if  one  hasn't  got  puzzles  enough,  and  bothers 
enough,  imder  one's  nose,  without  going  a-field  after  a  lot  of 
metaphysical  quibbles,  ^o,  I'm  wrong, — not  going  a-field, — 
anything  one  has  to  go  a-field  for  is  all  right.  What  a  fellow 
meets  outside  himself  he  isn't  responsible  for,  and  must  do 
the  best  he  can  with.  But  to  go  on  for  ever  looking  inside 
of  one  self,  and  groping  about  amongst  one's  OAvn  sensations, 
aud  ideas,  and  whimsies  of  one  kind  and  another,  I  can't 
conceive  a  poorer  line  of  business  than  that.  Don't  you  get 
into  it  now,  that's  a  dear  boy. 

"  Very  likely  you'll  tell  me  you  can't  help  it ;  that  every 
one  has  his  own  difficulties,  and  must  fight  them  out,  and  that 
mine  are  one  sort,  and  yours  another.  Well,  perhaps  you 
may  be  right.  I  hope  I'm  getting  to  know  that  my  ])lummet 
isn't  to  measure  all  tlie  world.  But  it  does  seem  a  pity  that 
men  shouldn't  be  tlunking  about  how  to  cure  some  of  the 
wrongs  which  poor  dear  old  England  is  pretty  near  dying  of^ 


470  TOM    BKOWN    AT    OXFORD. 

instead  of  taking  the  edge  off  tlieir  brains,  and  spending  all 
their  steam  m  speculating  about  all  kinds  of  things,  which 
wouldn't  make  any  poor  man  in  the  world — or  rich  one  either, 
for  that  matter — a  bit  better  off,  if  they  were  all  found  out, 
and  settled  to-morrow.  But  here  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  paper. 
Don't  be  angry  at  my  jobation  ;  but  write  me  a  long  answer 
of  your  own  free  will,  and  believe  me  ever  affectionately 
yours,  "  T.  B." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

AFTERNOON     VISITORS. 

!R[iss  Mart  Porter  was  sitting  alone  in  the  front  drawing- 
room  of  her  father's  house,  in  Bclgravia,  on  the  afternoon  of  a 
summer's  day  in  this  same  year.  Two  years  and  more  have 
passed  over  her  head  since  we  first  met  her,  and  she  may  be 
a  thought  more  sedate  and  better  dressed,  but  there  is  no 
other  change  to  be  noticed  in  her.  The  room  was  for  the 
most  part  much  like  other  rooms  in  that  quarter  of  the  world. 
There  were  few  luxuries  in  the  way  of  furniture  which  fallen 
man  can  desire  which  were  not  to  be  found  there ;  but,  over 
and  above  this,  there  Avas  an  elegance  in  the  arrangement  of 
all  the  nic-nacs  and  ornaments,  and  an  appropriateness  and 
good  taste  in  the  placing  of  every  piece  of  furniture  and  vase 
of  flowers,  which  showed  that  a  higher  order  of  mind  than  the 
upholsterer's  or  housemaid's  was  constantly  overlooking  and 
working  there.  Everything  seemed  to  be  in  its  exact  place, 
in  the  best  place  which  could  have  been  thought  of  for  it,  and 
to  be  the  best  thing  which  could  have  been  thought  of  for  the 
place.  And  yet  this  perfection  did  not  strike  you  particularly 
at  first,  or  surprise  you  in  any  way,  but  sank  into  you  gradu- 
ally, so  that,  until  you  forced  yourself  to  consider  the  matter, 
you  could  not  in  the  least  say  why  the  room  had  such  a  very 
pleasant  effect  on  you. 

The  young  lady  to  whom  this  charm  was  chiefly  owing  was 
sitting  by  a  buhl  work-table,  on  Avhich  lay  her  embroidery  and 
a  book.  She  was  reading  a  letter,  which  seemed  deeply  to 
interest  her ;  for  she  did  not  hear  the  voice  of  the  butler, 
who  had  just  opened  the  door  and  disturbed  her  solitude, 
until  he  had  repeated  for  the  second  time,  "Mr.  Smith." 
Then  Mary  jumped  up,  and,  hastily  folding  her  letter,  put  it 
into  her  pocket.  She  was  rather  provoked  at  having  allowed 
herself  to  be  caught  there  alone  by  afternoon  visitors,  and 
with  the  servants  for  having  let  any  one  in ;  nevertheless, 


AFTERNOON    VISITOIJS.  471 

e\\ii  welcomed  Mr.  Smith  with  a  cordiality  of  manner  which 
perhaps  rather  more  than  represented  her  real  feelings,  and, 
with  a  "let  mamma  know,"  to  the  butler,  set  to  work  to 
entertain  her  visitor.  She  would  have  had  no  difficidly  iu 
doing  this  under  owlinary  ciixium stances,  as  all  that  l^Ir.  Smith 
wanted  was  a  good  listener.  He  was  a  somewhat  heavy  and 
garrulous  old  gentleman,  with  many  imaginary,  and  a  few  real 
troubles,  the  constant  contemiilatiou  of  which  served  to  occupy 
the  whole  of  his  own  time,  and  as  much  of  his  friends'  as 
he  could  get  them  to  give  him.  But  scarcely  had  he  settled 
himself  comfortjibly  in  an  easy  chair  opposite  to  his  victim, 
when  the  butler  entered  again,  and  announced,  "  ISlr.  St. 
Cloud." 

Mary  was  now  no  longer  at  her  ease.  Her  manner  of 
receiving  her  new  visitor  was  constrained  ;  and  yet  it  was 
clear  that  he  was  on  easy  terms  in  the  house.  She  asked 
the  butler  where  his  mistress  was,  and  heard  with  vexation 
that  she  had  gone  out,  but  was  expected  home  almost  imme- 
diately. Charging  him  to  let  her  mother  know  the  moment 
she  returned,  Mary  turned  to  her  unwelcome  task,  and  sat 
herself  down  again  with  such  resignation  as  she  was  capable 
of  at  the  moment.  The  conduct  of  her  visitors  was  by  no 
means  calculated  to  restore  her  composure,  or  make  her 
comfortable  between  them.  She  w^as  sure  that  they  knew 
one  another ;  but  neither  of  them  would  speak  to  the  other. 
There  the  two  sat  on,  each  resolutely  bent  on  tiring  the  other 
out ;  the  elder  crooning  on  to  her  in  an  undertone,  and  ignoring 
the  younger,  who  in  his  turn  put  on  an  air  of  serene  uncon- 
sciousness of  the  presence  of  his  senior,  and  gazed  about  tho 
room,  and  watched  l^fary,  making  occasional  remarks  to  her 
as  if  no  one  else  were  piesent.  On  aud  on  they  sat,  her  only 
comfort  being  the  hope  that  neither  of  them  would  have  tho 
conscience  to  staj'  on  after  the  departure  of  the  other. 

Between  them  Mary  was  driven  to  her  wits'  end,  and  looked 
for  her  mother  or  for  some  new  visitor  to  come  to  her  help, 
as  Wellington  locked  for  the  Prussians  on  the  afternoon  of 
June  1 8th.  At  last  youth  and  insolence  prevailed,  and  Mr. 
Smith  rose  t^  go.  Mary  got  up  too,  and  after  his  departure 
remained  standing,  in  hopes  that  her  other  visitor  would  take 
the  hint  and  follow  the  good  example.  But  St.  Cloud  had 
not  the  least  intention  of  moving. 

"  Really  your  goofl-nature  is  quite  astonishing,  Miss  Porter," 
he  said,  leaning  forwards  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and 
following  the  pattern  of  one  of  the  flowers  on  the  carpet  with 
his  cane,  which  gave  him  the  opportunity  of  showing  his 
delicately  gloved  hand  to  advantage. 


472  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFOKD. 

"  Indeed,  wliy  do  yon  think  so  1 "  she  aslced,  taking  np  he? 
embroidery,  and  pretendii  g  io  bcgii)  working. 

"  Have  I  not  good  reason,  after  sitting  this  half  hour  and 
seeing  you  enduring  okl  Suiit]) — tlie  greatest  bore  in  London  1 
1  don't  believe  there  are  three  houses  where  the  servants  dare 
let  him  in.  It  would  be  as  niucli  as  their  places  are  worth. 
No  porter  could  hope  for  a  character  who  let  him  in  twice  in 
the  season." 

"  Poor  Mr.  Smith,"  said  Mary,  smiling.  "  But  yon  know 
we  have  no  porter,  and,"  she  suddenly  checked  herself,  and 
added  gravely,  "  he  is  an  old  friend,  and  papa  and  luamuia 
like  him." 

"  But  the  wearisomeneps  of  his  grievances  !  Those  thret 
sons  in  the  Plungers,  and  their  eternal  scrapes  !  How  you 
could  manage  to  keep  a  civil  face !  It  was  a  masterpiece  of 
polite  patience." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  very  sorry  for  his  troubles.  I  wonder  where 
mamma  can  be  ?  We  are  going  to  drive.  Shall  you  be  in 
the  Park  ?     I  think  it  must  be  time  for  me  to  dress." 

"  I  hope  not.  It  is  so  seldom  that  I  see  you  except  in 
crowded  rooms.  Can  you  wonder  that  I  should  value  sucli 
a  chance  as  this  ? " 

"Were  you  at  the  new  opera  last  night?"  asked  Mary, 
carefully  avoiding  his  eye,  and  sticking  to  her  work,  but 
scarcely  able  to  conceal  her  nervousness  and  discomfort. 

"  Yes,  I  was  there  ;  but " 

"  Oh,  do  tell  me  about  it,  then  ;  I  hear  it  was  a  great 
success." 

"  Another  time.  We  can  talk  of  the  opera  anywhere.  Let 
me  speak  now  of  something  else.  You  must  have  seen,  Miss 
Porter  " 

"  How  can  you  think  I  will  talk  of  anything  till  you  have 
told  me  about  the  opera  1 "  interrupted  Mary,  rapidly  and  ner- 
vously. "  Was  Grisi  very  fine  1  The  chief  part  was  composed 
for  her,  was  it  not  ?  and  dear  old  Lablache  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  presently,  if  you  will  let  me, 
in  five  minutes'  tiuie — I  oidy  ask  for  five  minutes  " 

"  Five  minutes  !  Oh,  no,  not  five  seconds.  I  must  hear 
about  the  new  opera  before  I  will  listen  to  a  word  of  any- 
thing else." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Porter,  yon  must  pardon  me  for  disobey- 
ing. Bui  I  may  not  have  such  a  chance  as  this  again  for 
months." 

With  which  prelude  he  drew  his  chair  towards  hers,  and 
Mary  was  just  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to  jumj)  up  ami 
run  right  out  of  the  room,  when  the  dour  opened,  and  tho 


AFTERNOON    VISITORS.  473 

butler  walked  in  with  a  card  ou  a  Avaiter.  IMary  had  never 
felt  so  relieved  in  her  life,  and  could  have  hugged  the  solemn 
old  domestic  Avhen  he  said,  presenting  the  card  to  her, 

"  The  gentleman  asked  if  Mrs.  or  you  were  in,  ]\Iiss,  and 
told  me  to  bring  it  up,  and  find  whether  you  would  see  him 
on  particular  business.     He's  waiting  in  the  hall." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know.  Of  course.  Yes,  say  I  will  see  him 
directly.     I  mean,  ask  him  to  come  up  now." 

"  Shall  I  show  him  into  the  library.  Miss  1 " 

"  No,  no  ;  in  here  ;  do  you  understand  1 " 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  replied  the  butler,  with  a  deprecatory  look  at 
St.  Cloud,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  You  see  I  can't  help  it,"  in 
answer  to  his  impatient  telegraphic  signals.  St.  Cloud  hud 
been  very  liberal  to  the  Porters'  servants. 

Mary's  confidence  had  all  come  back.  Relief  Avas  at  hand. 
She  could  trust  herself  to  hold  St.  Cloud  at  bay  now,  as  it 
could  not  be  for  more  than  a  few  minutes.  When  she  turned 
to  him  the  nervousness  had  quite  gone  out  of  her  manner, 
and  she  spoke  in  her  old  tone  again,  as  she  laid  her  embroi- 
dery aside. 

"  How  lucky  that  you  should  be  here.  Look  ;  I  think 
yon  must  be  acquainted,"  she  said,  holding  out  the  card 
which  the  butler  had  given  her  to  St.  Cloud. 

He  took  it  mechanically,  and  looked  at  it,  and  then 
crushed  it  in  his  hand,  and  was  going  to  speak.  She  pre- 
vented him. 

"  I  was  right,  I'm  sure.     You  do  know  him  1 " 

"  I  didn't  see  the  name,"  he  said,  almost  fiercely. 

"The  name  on  the  card  which  I  gave  you  just  now? — Mr. 
Grey.  He  is  curate  in  one  of  the  poor  Westminster  districts. 
You  must  remember  him,  for  he  was  of  your  college.  He  was 
at  Oxford  with  you.  I  made  his  acquaintance  at  the  Com- 
memoration.    He  will  be  so  glad  to  meet  an  old  friend." 

St.  Cloud  was  too  much  provoked  to  answer ;  and  the 
next  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  butler  announced 
Mr.  Grey. 

Grey  came  into  the  room  timidly,  carrying  his  head  a  little 
down  as  usual,  and  glancing  uncomfortably  about  in  the  manner 
wliich  used  to  make  Drysdale  say  that  he  always  looked  as 
though  he  had  just  been  robbing  a  hen-roost.  Mary  went 
forward  to  meet  him,  holding  out  her  hand  cordially. 

*'  1  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "  How  kind  of  you 
to  call  when  you  are  so  busy  !  Mamma  will  be  here  directly. 
I  think  you  must  remember  Mr.  St.  Cloud — Mr.  Grey." 

St.  Cloud's  patience  was  now  quite  gone.  He  drew  hirji- 
self  up,   making  the  slightest   possible   inclination  towai'ds 


474  TOM   BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

Grey,  and  then,  without  taking  any  further  notice  of  him, 
turned  to  Mary  with  a  look  vvhicli  he  meant  to  be  full  of 
pitying  admiration  for  her,  and  contempt  of  her  visitor ;  but, 
as  she  would  not  look  at  him,  it  was  thrown  away.  So  he 
made  his  bow  and  stalked  out  of  the  room,  angrily  debating 
with  himself,  as  he  went  down  the  stairs,  whether  she  eould 
have  understood  him.  He  was  so  fully  convinced  of  the 
sacrifice  which  a  man  in  his  position  was  making  in  paying 
serious  attentions  to  a  girl  with  little  fortune  and  no  con- 
nexion, that  he  soon  consoled  himself  in  the  belief  that  her 
embarrassment  only  arose  from  shyness,  and  that  the  moment 
he  could  explain  himself  she  would  be  his  obedient  Lud 
grateful  servant.  Meantime  Mary  sat  down  opposite  to  the 
curate,  and  listened  to  him  as  he  unfolded  his  errand  awkwardly 
enough.  An  execution  was  threatened  in  the  house  of  a  poor 
struggling  widow,  whom  ]\Irs.  Porter  had  employed  to  do 
needlework  occasionally,  and  who  was  behind  with  her  rent 
through  sickness.  He  was  afraid  that  her  things  v/ould  bo 
taken  and  sold  in  the  morning,  unless  slie  could  borrow  two 
sovereigns.  He  had  so  many  claims  on  him  that  he  could 
not  lend  her  the  money  himself,  and  so  had  come  out  to  see 
what  he  could  do  amongst  those  who  knew  her. 

By  the  time  Grey  bad  arrived  at  the  end  of  his  story, 
Mary  had  made  up  her  mind — not  without  a  little  struggle 
— to  sacrifice  the  greater  part  of  what  was  left  of  her  quarter's 
allowance.  After  all,  it  would  only  be  wearing  cleaned  gloves 
instead  of  new  ones,  and  giving  up  her  new  riding-hat  till 
next  quarter.  So  she  jumped  up,  and  said  gaily,  "  Is  that 
all,  Mr.  Grey  ?  I  have  the  money,  and  I  will  lend  it  her 
with  pleasure.  I  will  fetch  it  directly."  She  tripped  off  to 
her  room,  and  soon  came  back  with  the  money;  and  just  then 
the  butler  came  in  with  tea,  and  Mary  asked  Mr.  Grey  to  take 
some.  He  looked  tired,  she  said,  and,  if  he  would  wait  a 
little  time,  he  would  see  her  mother,  who  would  be  sure  to 
do  something  more  for  the  poor  woman. 

Grey  had  risen  to  leave,  and  was  standing,  hat  in  hand, 
ready  to  go.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  reckoning  with  him- 
self strictly  fur  every  minute  of  his  day,  and  was  never  quite 
satisfied  with  himself  unless  he  was  doing  the  most  disagree- 
able thing  which  circumstances  for  the  time  being  allowed  him 
to  do.  But  greater  and  stronger  men  than  Grey,  from  Adam 
downwards,  have  yielded  to  the  temptation  before  which  he 
now  succumbed.  He  looked  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes ; 
and  there  was  something  so  fresh  and  bright  in  the  picture  of 
the  daiut}-  little  tea-service  and  the  young  lady  behind  it,  the 
t'ia  which  ihn  was  beginning  to  pour  out  jjmelt  so  refreshing, 


AFTERNOON  VISITORS.  475 

and  her  haiul  and  liifure  looked  so  [)ietty  in  the  operation, 
that,  with  a  sigh  of  departing  resohitioii,  lie  gave  in,  put  his 
hat  on  the  floor,  aiul  sat  down  opposite  to  the  tempter. 

Grey  took  a  cup  of  tea,  and  then  another.  He  thought  he 
had  never  tasted  anything  so  good.  The  delicious  rich  cream, 
and  the  tempting  phite  of  bread  and  butter,  were  too  much 
for  htm.  lie  fairly  gave  way,  and  resigned  himself  to  physical 
enjoyment,  and  sipped  liis  tea,  ami  looked  over  his  cup  at 
!Mary,  sitting  there  bright  and  kind,  and  ready  to  go  on 
pouring  out  for  him  to  any  extent.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if 
uu  atmosphere  of  light  and  joy  surrounded  her,  within  tho 
circle  of  which  he  was  sitting  and  absorbing.  Tea  was  the 
only  stimulant  that  Grey  ever  took,  and  he  had  more  need 
of  it  tlian  usual,  for  he  had  given  away  the  chop,  which  was 
his  ordinaiy  dinner,  to  a  starving  woman.  He  was  faint  with 
fasting  and  the  bad  air  of  the  hovels  in  which  he  had  been 
spending  his  morning.  The  elegance  of  the  room,  the  smell 
of  the  flowers,  the  charm  of  companionship  with  a  young 
woman  of  his  own  rank,  and  the  contrast  of  the  whole  to 
his  common  way  of  life,  carried  him  away,  and  hopes  and 
thoughts  began  to  creep  into  his  head  to  which  he  had  long 
been  a  stranger.  Mary  did  her  very  best  to  make  his  visit 
pleasant  to  him.  She  had  a  great  respect  for  the  3elf-denyiiig 
life  which  she  knew  he  was  leading;  and  the  nei'vousness 
and  shyness  of  his  manners  were  of  a  kind,  which,  instead 
of  infecting  her,  gave  her  confidence,  and  made  her  feel  quite 
at  her  ease  with  hini.  She  was  so  grateful  to  him  for  having 
delivered  her  out  of  her  recent  embarrassment,  that  she  was 
more  than  usually  kind  in  her  manner. 

She  saw  how  he  was  enjoying  himself,  and  thought  what 
good  it  must  d(j  him  to  foiget  his  usual  occupations  for  a 
short  time.  So  she  talked  positive  gossip  to  him,  asked  his 
opinion  on  riding-habits,  and  very  soon  was  telling  him  the 
plot  of  a  new  novel  which  she  had  jodt  been  reading,  with  an 
animation  and  playfulness  which  would  have  warmed  the 
heart  of  an  anchorite.  For  a  short  quarter  of  an  hour  Grey 
resigned  himself;  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  becanie 
suddenly  and  painfully  conscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  and 
stopped  himself  short  in  the  middle  of  an  altogether  worldly 
compliment,  which  he  detected  himself  in  the  act  of  paying 
to  his  too  fascinating  young  hostess.  He  felt  that  retreat  was 
liis  only  chance,  and  so  grasped  his  hat  again,  and  rose  with  a 
deep  sigh,  and  a  sudden  change  of  manner  which  alarmed 
Mary. 

"  I  ht>pe  you  are  not  ill,  Mr.  Grey  ?  "  she  said,  anxiously, 

"iSo,  not    the  least,   thank  you.     I>ut — bat — in  short,   1 


476  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFORD. 

must  go  to  my  ■vvork.  I  ought  to  apologize,  indeed,  for  having 
stayed  so  loTig." 

"Oh,  you  uHve  ii-H  been  here  moi'e  than  twenty  minutes. 
Pray  stay,  and  see  I'laoima;  she  must  be  in  directly." 

"  Thank  you ;  yoi*  are  very  kind.  1  should  like  it  very 
nmch,  but  indeed  T  cannot." 

Mary  felt  that  it  would  be  no  kindness  to  press  it  further, 
and  so  rose  herself,  and  held  out  her  hand.  Grey  took  it, 
and  it  is  not  qiute  certain  to  this  day  whether  he  did  not  press 
it  in  that  farewell  shake  more  than  was  absolutely  necessary. 
If  he  did,  we  may  be  quite  sure  that  he  administered  exem- 
plary punisliment  to  himself  afterwards  for  so  doing.  He 
would  gladly  have  left  now,  but  his  over  sensitive  conscience 
forbade  it.  He  had  forgotten  his  office,  he  thought,  hitherto, 
but  there  was  time  yet  not  to  be  altogether  false  to  it.  So  he 
looked  grave  and  shy  again,  and  said, — 

"  You  will  not  be  olfended  with  me,  Miss  Porter,  if  I  speak 
to  you  as  a  clergyman  1 " 

Mary  was  a  little  disconcerted,  but  answered  almost  imme- 
diately,— 

"  Oh,  no.  Pray  say  anything  which  you  think  you  ought 
to  say." 

"I  am  afraid  there  must  be  a  great  temptation  in  living 
always  in  beautiful  rooms  like  this,  with  no  one  but  jjrosperous 
people.     Do  you  not  think  so  1 " 

"  But  one  cannot  help  it.  Surely,  Mr.  Grey,  you  do  not 
tliink  it  can  be  wrong?'' 

"  No,  not  'd^rong.  But  it  must  be  very  trying.  It  must  be 
very  necessa  y  to  do  someLhing  to  kssen  the  temptation  of 
such  a  life." 

'*  I  do  not  understand  you.     "What  could  one  do  ? " 

"  ISright  you  not  take  up  some  work  which  would  not  be 
pleasant,  such  as  visiting  the  pour  1 " 

"  1  should  be  very  glad ;  but  we  do  not  know  any  poor 
people  in  London." 

"  There  are  very  miserable  districts  near  here." 

"Yes,  and  papa  and  mamma  are  very  kind,  I  know,  in 
helping  whenever  they  can  hear  of  a  proper  case.  But  it  is 
so  dilfereut  from  the  country.  There  it  is  so  easy  and  pleasant 
CO  go  into  the  cottages  where  every  one  knows  you,  and  most 
of  the  people  work  for  papa,  and  one  is  sure  of  being  welcomed, 
and  that  nobody  will  be  rude.  But  here  I  should  be  afraid. 
It  would  seem  so  impertinent  to  go  to  people's  houses  of 
whom  one  knows  nothing.  I  should  never  know  what  to 
say." 

"  It  is  not  easy  or  pleasant  duty  which  is  the  best  for  u-s. 


AFTERNOON    VISITORS.  477 

Great  cities  conld   never  he  evangelized,  Miss  Porter,  if  all 
luclies  thouglit  as  yon  do." 

**  I  think,  Mr.  Grey,"  said  Marj',  rather  nettled,  "  that  every 
one  has  not  the  gift  of  lecturing  tlie  poor,  and  setting  them 
right ;  and,  if  they  have  not,  they  had  better  not  try  to  do  it. 
And  as  for  all  tlie  rest,  there  is  plenty  of  the  same  kmd  of 
work  to  be  done,  I  believe,  amongst  the  people  of  one's  own 
"Jass." 

"  You  are  joking.  Miss  Porter." 

"  !No,  I  am  not  joking  at  all.  I  believe  that  rich  people 
are  quite  as  unhappy  as  poor.  Their  troubles  are  not  the 
same,  of  course,  and  are  generally  of  theii-  own  making.  But 
troubles  of  the  mind  are  worse,  surely,  than  troubles  of  the 
body  1 " 

"  Certainly ;  and  it  is  the  highest  work  of  the  ministry  to 
deal  with  spiritual  trials.  But,  you  will  pardon  me  for  saying 
that  I  cannot  think  this  is  the  proper  work  for — for — " 

"  For  me,  you  would  say.  We  must  be  speaking  of  quite 
different  things,  I  am  sure.  I  only  mean  that  I  can  listen  to 
the  troubles  and  gi'ievances  of  any  one  who  likes  to  talk  of 
them  to  me,  and  try  to  comfort  them  a  little,  and  to  make 
things  look  brighter,  and  to  keep  cheerful.  It  is  not  easy 
always  even  to  do  this." 

"  It  is  not,  indeed.  But  would  it  not  be  easier  if  you  could 
do  as  I  suggest?  Going  out  of  one's  own  class,  and  trying  to 
care  for  and  to  help  the  poor,  braces  the  mind  more  than  any- 
thing else." 

"  You  ought  to  know  my  cousin  Katie,"  said  IMary,  glad  to 
make  a  diversion  ;  "  that  is  just  what  she  would  say.  Indeed, 
I  think  you  must  have  seen  her  at  Oxford  ;  did  you  not  1 " 

"  I  believe  I  had  the  honour  of  mooting  her  at  the  rooms 
of  a  friend.      I  think  he  said  she  was  also  a  cousin  of  his." 

"Mr.  Brown,  you  mean?     Yes  ;  did  you  know  him?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  You  will  think  it  strange,  as  we  are  so  very 
unlike  ;  but  I  knew  him  better  than  I  knew  almost  any  one." 

"  Poor  Katie  is  verj'-  anxious  about  hhn.  I  hope  you 
thought  well  of  him.  You  do  not  think  he  is  likely  to  go 
very  wrong  ? " 

"  No,  indeed.  T  could  wish  he  Avere  sounder  on  Church 
questions,  but  that  may  come.  Do  you  know  that  he  is  in 
London  ? " 

"  I  had  heard  so." 

"  He  has  been  several  times  to  my  schools.  He  used  t( 
help  me  at  Oxford,  and  has  a  capital  way  with  the  boys." 

At  this  moment  the  clock  on  the  mantel-])iece  struck  a 
quarter.    The  sound  touched  some  chord  in  Grey  whicli  made 


478  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD 

him  grnsp  his  hat  again,  and  prepare  for  another  attempt  to 
get  away. 

"  I  liope  yon  will  pardon — "  He  pulled  himself  up  short, 
in  the  fear  lest  he  were  going  again  to  be  false  (as  he 
deemed  it)  to  his  calling,  and  stood  the  picture  of  nervous 
discomfort. 

Mary  came  to  his  relief.  "  T  am  sorry  you  must  go,  Mr. 
Grey,"  she  said  ;  "  I  should  so  like  to  have  talked  to  3'ou 
more  about  Oxford.     You  will  call  again  soon,  T  hope  ? " 

At  which  last  speech  Grey,  casting  an  imploring  glance  at 
her,  muttered  something  which  she  could  not  catch,  and  fled 
from  the  room. 

Mary  stood  looking  dreamily  out  of  the  window  for  a  few 
minutes,  till  the  entrance  of  her  mother  roused  her,  and  she 
turned  to  pour  out  a  cup  of  tea  for  her. 

"  It  is  cold,  mamma  dear ;  do  let  me  make  some  fresh." 

"  No,  thank  you,  dear ;  this  will  do  very  well,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter  ;  and  she  took  off  her  bonnet  and  sipped  the  cold  tea. 
Mary  watched  her  silently  for  a  minute,  and  then,  taking  the 
letter  she  had  been  reading,  out  of  her  pocket,  said, 

"  I  have  a  letter  from  Katie,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Porter  took  the  letter  ami  read  it ;  and,  as  Mary  still 
watched,  she  saw  a  puzzled  look  coming  over  her  mother's 
face.  Mrs.  Porter  finished  the  letter,  and  then  looked  stealthily 
at  Afary,  who  on  her  side  was  now  busily  engaged  in  putting 
uj)  the  tea-things. 

"  It  is  veiy  embarrassing,"  said  Mrs.  Porter. 

"  AVhat,  mamma  1 " 

"Oh,  of  course,  my  dear,  T  mean  Katie's  telling  us  of  her 
cousin's  being  in  London,  and  sending  us  his  address — "  and 
then  she  paused. 

"  Why,  mamma  ? " 

"Your  papa  will  have  to  make  up  bis  mind  whether  he 
will  ask  him  to  the  house.  Katie  would  surely  never  have 
told  him  that  she  has  \vritten." 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  IJrown  were  so  very  kind.  It  would  seem 
so  strange,  so  ungrateful,  not  even  to  ask  him." 

"  I  am  afraid  he  is  not  the  sort  of  young  man — in  short,  I 
must  speak  to  your  pajia." 

Mrs.  Porter  looked  hard  at  her  daughtf  r,  who  was  still 
busied  with  the  tea-things.  She  bad  risen,  bonnet  in  hand, 
to  leave  the  room  ;  but  now  changed  her  mind,  and,  crossing 
to  her  daughter,  put  her  arm  round  her  neck.  Mary  looked 
up  steadily  into  her  eyes,  then  blushed  slightly,  and  said 
quietly, 

"  No,  mamma  ;  indeed,  it,  i«  not  as  you  think." 


ATTEENOON   "SISITORS.  479 

Her  TnotheT  stooped  and  kissed  her,  and  left  the  room, 
telling  her  to  get  dressed,  as  the  carriage  would  be  round  in  a 
few  minutes. 

Her  trials  for  the  day  were  not  over.  She  could  see  by 
their  manner  at  dinner  that  her  father  and  mother  had  been 
talking  about  her.  Her  fatlier  took  her  to  a  ball  in  tlie 
evening,  where  they  met  St.  Cloud,  who  fastened  himself  to 
them.  She  was  dancing  a  quadrille,  and  her  father  stood  near 
her,  talking  conlidentially  to  St.  Cloud.  In  the  intervals  of 
the  dance  scraps  of  their  conversation  reached  her. 

"  You  knew  him,  then,  at  Oxford  1 " 

"Yes,  very  sliglitly." 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  you  now,  as  a  friend — "  Here  Mary's 
partner  reminded  her  that  she  ought  to  be  dancing.  When 
she  had  returned  to  her  place  again  she  heard — 

"  You  think,  then,  that  it  was  a  bad  business  1 " 

"  It  Avas  notorious  in  the  college.  We  never  had  any  doubt 
on  the  subject." 

"  My  niece  has  told  Mrs.  Porter  that  there  really  was 
nothing  wrong  in  it." 

"  Indeed  ?     I  am  happy  to  hear  it." 

"I  should  like  to  think  Avell  of  him,  as  he  is  a  connexion 
of  my  wife.  In  other  respects  now — "  Here  again  she  was 
carried  away  by  the  dance,  and,  when  she  returned,  caught 
the  end  of  a  sentence  of  St.  Cloud's,  "  You  will  consider  what 
I  have  said  in  confidence  1 " 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Mr.  Porter  ;  "  and  I  am  exceedingly 
obliged  to  you  ; "  and  then  the  dance  was  over,  and  Mary 
returned  to  her  father's  side.  She  had  never  enjoyed  a  ball 
less  than  this,  and  persuaded  her  father  to  leave  early,  which 
he  was  delighted  to  do. 

When  she  reached  her  own  room  Mary  took  off  her  wreath 
and  ornaments,  and  then  sat  down  and  fell  into  a  brown 
study,  which  lasted  for  some  time.  At  last  she  roused  herself 
with  a  sigh,  and  thought  she  had  never  had  so  tiring  a  day, 
though  she  could  hardly  tell  why,  and  felt  half  inclined  to 
have  a  good  cry,  if  she  could  only  have  made  up  her  mind 
what  about.  However,  being  a  sensible  young  woman,  she 
resisted  the  temptation,  and,  hardly  taking  the  trouble  to  roll 
up  her  hair,  went  to  bed  and  slept  soundly. 

Mr.  Porter  found  his  wife  sitting  up  for  him ;  they  were 
evidently  both  full  of  the  same  subject. 

"  Well,  dear  1 "  she  said,  as  he  entered  the  room. 

Mr.  Porter  put  down  his  candle,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  You  don't  think  Katie  can  be  right  then  1  She  must 
have  capital  opportunities  of  judging,  you  know,  dj.'ar." 


480  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"  But  she  is  no  judge.  What  can  a  girl  like  Katie  knn-w 
about  such  things  ?  " 

"Well,  dear,  do  you  know  I  really  cannot  think  there  waa 
anything  very  wrong,  though  I  did  think  so  at  first,  I  own." 

"  But  I  find  that  his  character  was  bad — decidedly  bad — 
always.  Young  St.  Cloud  didn't  like  to  say  much  to  me  ; 
which  was  natural,  of  course.  Young  men  never  like  to 
betray  one  another  ;  but  I  could  see  what  he  thought.  He  is 
a  right-minded  young  man,  and  very  agreeable." 

"  1  do  not  take  to  him  very  much." 

"His  connexions  and  prospects,  too,  are  capital.  I  some- 
times think  he  has  a  fancy  for  Mary.     Haven't  you  remarked 

itr 

"Yes,  dear.  But  as  to  the  other  matter  1  Shall  you  ask 
him  here  1 " 

"  Well,  dear,  T  do  not  think  there  is  any  need.  He  is  only 
in  town,  I  suppose,  for  a  short  time,  and  it  is  not  at  all  likely 
that  we  should  know  where  he  is,  you  see." 

"  But  if  he  should  call  1 " 

"  Of  course  then  we  must  be  civil.  We  can  consider  then 
wliat  is  to  be  done." 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

THE    INTERCEPTED    LETTER-BAa. 

"  Dear  Katie,  —  At  home,  you  see,  without  having  an- 
swereil  your  last  kind  letter  of  counsel  and  sympathy.  But 
I  couldn't  write  in  town,  I  was  in  such  a  queer  state  all  the 
time.  I  enjoyed  nothing,  not  even  the  match  at  Lord's,  or 
the  race ;  only  walking  at  night  in  the  square,  and  watching 
her  window,  and  seeing  her  at  a  distance  in  Rotten  Row. 

"  I  followed  your  advice  at  last,  though  it  went  against  the 
grain  uncommonly.  It  did  seem  so  unlike  what  I  had  a  right 
to  expect  from  them — after  all  the  kindness  my  father  and 
mother  had  shown  them  when  they  came  into  our  neighbour- 
hood, and  after  I  had  been  so  intimate  there,  running  in  and 
out  just  like  a  son  of  their  own — that  they  shouldn't  take  the 
slightest  notice  of  me  all  the  time  I  was  in  London.  I 
shouldn't  have  wondered  if  you  hadn't  explained ;  but  after 
that,  and  after  you  had  told  them  my  direction,  and  when 
they  knew  that  I  was  within  five  minutes'  walk  of  their  house 
constantly  (for  they  knew  all  about  Grey's  schools,  and  that  I 
was  there  three  or  four  times  a-week),  1  do  think  it  was  too 
^d.     However,  as  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  1  went  at  last,  for 


THE   INTERCt'.FrED  LETTEK-BAG.  481 

T  couldn't  leave  town  without  trying  to  see  her ;  and  I  believe 
I  have  finished  it  all  off.  I  don't  know.  I'm  very  low  about 
it,  at  any  rate,  and  want  to  tell  you  all  that  passed,  and  to 
hear  what  you  tliink.  I  have  no  one  to  consult  but  you, 
Katie.  What  should  I  do  without  you  1  But  you  were  born 
to  help  and  comfort  all  the  world.  I  shan't  rest  till  I  knov 
what  you  think  about  this  last  crisis  in  my  history. 

"  I  put  off  going  till  my  last  day  in  town,  and  then  called 
twice.  The  first  time,  *  not  at  home.'  But  I  was  determined 
now  to  see  somebody  and  make  out  something  ;  so  I  left  my 
card,  and  a  message  that,  as  I  was  leaving  town  next  day,  I 
would  call  again.  Wlien  I  called  again  at  about  six  o'clock, 
I  was  shown  into  the  library,  and  presently  your  uncle  came 
in.  I  felt  very  uncomfortable,  and  I  think  he  did  too  ;  but 
he  shook  hands  cordially  enough,  asked  why  I  had  not  called 
before,  and  said  he  was  sorry  to  hear  I  was  going  out  of  town 
so  soon.  Do  you  believe  he  meant  it  1  I  didn't.  But  it  put 
me  out,  because  it  made  it  look  as  if  it  had  been  my  fault  that 
I  hadn't  been  there  before.  I  said  I  didn't  know  that  he 
would  have  liked  me  to  call,  but  I  felt  that  he  had  got  the 
best  of  the  start. 

*'  Then  he  asked  after  all  at  home,  and  talked  of  his  boys, 
and  how  they  were  getting  on  at  school.  By  this  time  I  had 
got  my  head  again  ;  so  I  went  back  to  my  calling,  and  said  that 
1  had  felt  I  could  never  come  to  their  house  as  a  common 
acquaintance,  and,  as  I  did  not  know  whether  they  would  ever 
let  me  come  in  any  other  capacity,  I  had  kept  away  till 
now. 

"  Your  uncle  didn't  like  it,  I  know ;  for  he  got  up  and 
walked  about,  and  then  said  he  didn't  understand  me.  Well, 
I  was  quite  reckless  by  this  time.  It  was  my  last  chance,  I 
felt ;  so  I  looked  hard  into  my  hat,  and  said  that  I  had  been 
over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  Mary  for  two  years.  Of 
course  there  was  no  getting  out  of  the  business  after  that.  I 
kept  on  staring  into  my  hat ;  so  1  don't  know  how  he  took 
it ;  but  the  first  thing  he  said  was  that  he  had  had  some  sus- 
picions of  this,  and  now  my  confession  gave  him  a  right  to 
ask  me  several  questions.  In  the  first  place.  Had  I  ever 
si)oken  to  her]  No  ;  never  directly.  What  did  I  mean  by 
directly  1  I  meant  that  I  had  never  either  spoken  or  written 
to  her  on  the  subject — in  fact,  I  hadn't  seen  her  except  at  a 
distance  for  the  last  two  years — but  I  coidd  not  say  that  she 
might  not  have  found  it  out  from  my  manner.  Had  1  ever 
told  any  one  else  ?  No.  And  this  was  quite  true,  Katie,  for 
both  you  and  Hardy  found  it  out. 

"  He  took  a  good  many  turns  ])(.'fore  speaking  again.  Th'^u 
I  i 


482  TOM    BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

he  said  I  had  acted  as  a  geutleman  hitherto,  and  he  slioiiM  be 
very  plain  with  me.  Of  course  I  must  see  that,  looking  at 
my  prospects  and  his  daughter  s  it  could  not  be  an  engagement 
which  he  could  look  on  with  much  favour  from  a  worldly 
point  of  view.  Nevertheless,  he  had  the  highest  respect  and 
regard  for  my  family,  so  that,  if  in  some  years'  time  I  was  in 
a  position  to  marry,  he  should  not  object  on  this  score  ;  but 
there  were  other  matters  which  were  in  his  eyes  of  more  im- 
portance. He  had  heard  (who  could  have  told  him  1)  that  I 
had  taken  up  very  violent  opinions — opinions  which,  to  say 
nothing  more  of  them,  would  very  much  damage  my  prospects 
of  success  in  life  ;  and  that  I  was  in  the  habit  of  associating 
with  the  advocates  of  such  opinions — persons  who,  he  must 
say,  were  not  fit  companions  for  a  gentleman — and  of  writing 
violent  articles  in  low  revolutionary  newspapers,  such  as  the 
Wessex  Freeman.  Yes,  I  confessed  I  had  vratten.  Would  I 
give  up  these  things  1  I  had  a  gi-eat  mind  to  say  flat,  No, 
and  I  believe  I  ought  to  have ;  but  as  his  tone  was  kind,  I 
couldn't  help  trying  to  meet  him.  So  I  said  I  would  give  up 
writing  or  speaking  publicly  about  such  matters,  but  I 
couldn't  pretend  not  to  believe  what  I  did  believe.  Perhaps, 
as  my  opinions  had  altered  so  much  aiieady,  very  likely  they 
might  again. 

"  He  seemed  to  be  rather  amused  at  that,  and  said  he  sin- 
cerely hoped  they  might.  But  now  came  the  most  serious 
point :  he  had  heard  very  bad  stories  of  me  at  Oxford,  but  he 
would  not  press  me  vnth  them.  There  were  too  few  young 
men  whose  Uves  would  bear  looking  into  for  him  to  insist 
much  on  such  matters,  and  he  was  ready  to  let  bygones  be 
bygones.  But  I  must  remember  that  he  had  himself  seen  me 
in  one  very  awkward  position.  I  broke  ui,  and  said  I  had 
hoped  that  had  been  exj)lained  to  him.  I  could  not  defend 
my  Oxford  life ;  I  could  not  defend  myself  as  to  this  par- 
ticular case  at  one  time  ;  but  there  had  been  nothing  Ln  it 
that  I  was  ashamed  of  since  before  the  time  I  knew  his 
daughter. 

"  On  my  honour  had  T  absolutely  and  entirely  broken  off 
all  relations  with  her  ?  He  had  been  told  that  I  still  kept  up 
a  correspondence  with  her. 

"  Yes,  I  still  wrote  to  her,  and  saw  her  occasionally ;  but  it 
was  only  to  give  her  news  of  a  young  man  from  her  village, 
who  was  now  serving  in  India.  He  had  no  other  way  of 
communicating  with  her. 

"  It  was  a  most  curious  arrangement ;  did  I  mean  that  this 
young  man  was  going  to  be  married  to  her  ] 

"  I  hoped  30. 


TTIE    INTERCEPTED    LETTEE-BAG.  483 

"  Why  should  he  not  write  to  her  at  once,  if  they  were 
engaged  to  be  married  ? 

"They  were  not  exactly  engaged;  it  was  rather  hard  to 
explain.  Here  your  uncle  seemed  to  lose  patience,  for  he  in- 
terrupted me  and  said,  '  Really  it  must  be  clear  to  me,  as  a 
reasonable  man,  that,  if  this  connexion  were  not  absolutely 
broken  off,  there  must  be  an  end  of  everything,  so  far  as  his 
daughter  was  concerned.  Would  T  give  my  word  of  honour 
to  break  it  off  at  once,  and  completely?'  I  tried  to  explain 
again  ;  but  he  would  have  nothing  but  *  yes '  or  '  no.'  Dear 
Katie,  what  could  I  do  ?  I  have  -svritten  to  Patty  that,  till  I 
die,  she  may  always  reckon  on  me  as  on  a  brother;  and  I  have 
promised  Harry  never  to  lose  sight  of  her,  and  to  let  her  know 
everything  that  happens  to  him.  Your  uncle  would  not  hear 
nie  ;  so  I  said,  No.  And  he  said,  'Then  our  interview  had 
better  end,'  and  rang  the  bell.  Somebody,  I'm  sure,  has  been 
slandering  me  to  him  ;  who  can  it  be  ? 

"  I  didn't  say  another  word,  or  offer  to  shake  hands,  but 
got  up  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  as  it  was  no  good  waiting 
for  the  servant  to  come.  When  I  got  into  the  hall  the  front 
door  was  open,  and  I  heard  her  voice.  I  stopped  dead  short. 
She  was  saying  something  to  some  people  who  had  been  riding 
with  her.  The  next  moment  the  door  shut,  and  she  tripped 
in  in  her  riding-habit,  and  grey  gloves,  and  hat,  with  the 
dearest  little  grey  plume  in  it.  She  went  humming  along,  and 
up  six  or  eight  steps,  without  seeing  me.  Then  I  moved  a 
step,  and  she  stopped  and  looked,  and  gave  a  start.  I  don't 
know  whether  my  face  was  awfully  miserable,  but,  when  our 
eyes  met,  hers  seemed  to  fill  with  pity,  and  uneasiness,  and 
in(|uiry,  and  the  bright  look  to  melt  away  altogether;  and  then 
she  blushed,  and  ran  down  stairs  again,  and  held  out  her  hand, 
saying,  '  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  after  all  this  long  time.'  I 
pressed  it,  but  1  don't  think  I  said  anything.  I  forget ;  the 
butler  came  into  the  hall,  and  stood  by  the  door.  She  paused 
another  moment,  looked  confused,  and  then,  as  the  library 
door  opened,  went  away  up  stairs,  with  a  kind  'good-bye.' 
She  dropped  a  little  bunch  of  violets,  which  she  had  worn  in 
the  breast  of  her  habit,  as  she  went  away.  I  went  and  picked 
them  up,  although  your  uncle  had  now  come  out  of  the  library, 
and  then  made  the  be.-^t  of  my  way  into  the  street. 

"  Tliere,  Katie,  I  have  told  you  everything,  exactly  as  it 
happened.  Do  write  to  me,  dear,  and  tell  me,  now,  what  you 
think.  Is  it  all  over  1  Wliat  can  I  do  1  Can  you  do  any- 
thing for  me?  I  feel  it  is  better  in  one  resrsect.  Her  father 
can  never  say  now  that  I  didn't  tell  him  all  about  it.  But 
what  is  to  happen  ?    I  am  so  restless.     I  can  settle  to  nothing, 

II  2 


484  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

and  do  nothing,  but  fish.  I  moon  away  all  my  tiiue  hy  the 
water-side,  dreaming.  But  I  don't  mean  to  let  it  beat  me 
much  longer.  Here's  the  fourth  day  since  I  saw  her.  I  came 
away  the  next  morning.  I  shall  give  myself  a  week ;  and, 
dear,  do  write  me  a  long  letter  at  once,  and  interpret  it  all  to 
me.  A  woman  knows  so  wonderfully  what  things  mean.  But 
don't  make  it  out  better  than  you  really  think.  Nobody  can 
stop  my  going  on  loving  her,  that's  a  comfort ;  and  while  I 
can  do  that,  and  don't  know  that  she  loves  anybody  else,  I 
ought  to  be  happier  than  any  other  man  in  the  world.  Yes, 
I  ought  to  be,  but  I  ain't.  I  will  be,  though  ;  see  if  I  won't. 
Ileigho !  Do  write  directly,  my  dear  counsellor,  to  your 
affectionate  cousin,  T.  B. 

"P.S. — I  had  almost  forgotten  my  usual  budget.  I  enclose 
my  last  from  India.  You  will  sue  by  it  that  Harry  is  getting 
on  famously.  I  am  more  glad  than  I  can  tell  you  that  my 
friend  East  has  taken  him  as  his  servant.  He  couldn't  be 
under  a  better  master.  Poor  Harry  !  I  sometimes  think  his 
case  is  more  hopeless  than  my  own.  How  is  it  to  come  right] 
or  mine  % " 

"  Englebottbn. 

"Dear  Cousin, — You  will  believe  how  I  devoured  your 
letter ;  though,  when  I  had  read  the  first  few  lines  and  saw 
what  was  coming,  it  made  me  stop  and  tremble.  At  first  I 
could  have  cried  over  it  for  vexation ;  but,  now  I  have  thought 
about  it  a  little,  I  really  do  not  see  any  reason  to  be  dis- 
couraged. At  any  rate.  Uncle  Robert  now  knows  all  about 
it,  and  will  get  used  to  the  idea,  and  Mary  seems  to  have 
received  you  just  as  you  ought  to  have  wished  that  she  should. 
I  am  thankful  that  you  have  left  off  pressing  me  to  write  to 
her  about  you,  for  I  am  sure  that  would  not  be  honourable ; 
and,  to  reward  you,  I  enclose  a  letter  of  hers,  which  came 
yesterday.  You  will  see  that  she  speaks  with  such  pleasure 
of  having  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  you  that  you  need  not 
regret  the  shortness  of  the  interview.  You  could  not  expect 
her  to  say  more,  because,  after  all,  she  can  only  guess  ;  and  I 
cannot  do  more  than  answer  as  if  I  were  quite  innocent  too. 
I  am  sure  you  will  be  very  thankful  to  me  some  day  for  not 
having  been  your  mouthpiece,  as  I  was  so  very  near  being. 
You  need  not  return  the  letter.  I  suppose  I  am  getting  more 
hopeful  as  I  grow  older — indeed,  I  am  sure  I  am ;  for  three 
or  four  years  ago  I  should  have  been  in  despair  about  you, 
and  now  I  am  nearly  sure  that  all  will  come  right. 

"  But,  indeed,  cousin  Tom,  you  cannot,  or  ought  not  to 
wonder  at  Uncle  Robert's  objecting  to  your  opinions.     And 


THE   INTEKCEPTED   LETTER-BAG.  485 

then  T  am  so  surprised  to  find  you  saying  tliat  you  tliink  you 
niuy  very  likely  change  them.  Because,  if  that  is  the  case,  it 
would  be  so  much  better  if  you  would  not  write  and  talk 
about  them.  Unless  you  are  quite  convinced  of  such  things 
as  you  write  in  that  dreadful  paper,  you  really  ought  not 
to  go  on  writing  them  so  very  much  as  if  you  believed 
them. 

"  And  now  I  am  speaking  to  you  about  this,  which  I  have 
often  had  on  my  mind  to  speak  to  you  about,  I  must  ask  you 
not  to  send  me  that  Wessex  Freeman  any  more.  I  am  always 
delighted  to  hear  what  you  think ;  and  there  is  a  great  deal 
in  the  articles  you  mark  for  me  which  seems  very  fine ;  and 
I  dare  say  you  quite  believe  it  all  when  you  write  it.  Only 
1  am  quite  afraid  lest  papa  or  any  one  of  the  servants  should 
open  the  papers,  or  get  hold  of  them  after  I  have  opened 
them  ;  for  1  am  sure  there  are  a  great  many  wicked  things  in 
the  other  parts  of  the  paper.  So,  please  do  not  send  it  me, 
but  write  and  tell  me  yourself  anything  that  you  wish  me  to 
know  of  what  you  are  thinking  about  and  doing.  As  I  did 
not  like  to  burn  the  papers,  and  was  afraid  to  keep  them  here, 
I  have  generally  sent  them  on  to  your  friend  Mr.  Hardy. 
He  does  not  know  who  sends  them  ;  and  now  you  might  send 
them  yourself  straight  to  him,  as  I  do  not  know  his  address 
in  the  country.  As  you  are  going  up  again  to  keep  a  term,  I 
wish  you  would  taUi  them  over  with  him,  and  see  what  he 
thinks  about  them.  You  will  think  this  very  odd  of  me,  but 
you  know  you  have  always  said  how  much  you  rely  on  his 
judgment,  and  that  you  have  learnt  so  much  from  him. 
So  I  am  sure  you  would  wish  to  consult  him ;  and,  if  he 
thinks  that  you  ought  to  go  on  writing,  it  will  be  a  great 
help  to  you  to  know  it. 

"  I  am  so  very  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you  how  well 
Martha  is  going  on.  I  have  always  read  to  her  the  extracts 
from  the  letters  from  India  which  you  have  sent  me,  and 
she  is  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  sending  them.  I  think 
there  is  no  doubt  that  she  is,  and  always  has  been,  attached 
to  poor  widow  Winburn's  son,  and,  now  that  he  is  behaving 
so  well,  I  can  see  that  it  gives  her  gj'eat  pleasure  to  hear 
about  him.  Only,  I  hope  he  will  be  able  to  come  back 
before  very  long,  because  she  is  very  much  admired,  and  is 
likely  to  have  so  many  chances  of  settling  in  life,  that  it 
is  a  great  chance  whether  attachment  to  him  will  be  strong 
enough  to  keep  her  single  if  he  should  be  absent  for  many 
years. 

"Do  you  know  I  have  a  sort  of  superstition,  that  your 
fate  hangs  upon  theirs  in  seme  curious   maxuior — the  tivn 


4So  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

Stories  liave  been  so  interwoven — and  that  tliey  will  both 
be  settled  happily  much  sooner  than  we  dare  to  hope  even 
just  now. 

"  Don't  think,  my  dear  cousin,  that  this  letter  is  cold, 
or  that  I  do  not  take  the  very  deepest  interest  in  all  that 
concerns  you.  You  and  Mary  are  always  in  my  thoughts, 
and  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  would  not  do  lor  you 
both  which  I  thought  would  help  you.  I  am  sure  it  would 
do  you  harm  if  I  were  only  a  go-between.  Papa  is  much 
as  u.sual.  He  gets  out  a  good  deal  in  his  chair  in  the  sun 
this  fine  weather.  He  desii-es  me  to  say  how  glad  he  should 
be  if  you  will  come  over  soon  and  pay  us  a  visit.  I  hope 
you  will  come  very  soon. 

"  Ever  believe  me,  dear  Tom, 
"  Your  affectionate  cousin, 

"  Katie." 

"  November. 

"Dear  Tom, — I  hear  that  what  you  in  England  call  a 
mail  is  to  leave  camp  this  evening ;  so,  that  you  may  have 
no  excuse  for  not  writing  to  me  constantly,  I  am  sitting 
down  to  spin  you  such  a  yarn  as  I  can  under  the  dis- 
advantageous circumstances  in  which  this  will  leave  me. 

"This  time  last  year,  or  somewhere  thereabouts,  I  was 
enjoying  academic  life  with  you  at  Oxford ;  and  now  here 
I  am,  encamped  at  some  unpronounceable  place  beyond 
Unibala.  You  won't  be  much  the  wiser  for  that.  What 
do  you  know  about  Umbala?  I  didn't  myself  know  that 
there  was  such  a  place  till  a  month  ago,  when  we  were 
ordered  to  march  up  here.  But  one  lives  and  learns. 
Marching  over  India  has  its  disagreeables,  of  which  dysentery 
and  dust  are  about  the  worst.  A  lot  of  our  fellows  are 
down  Avith  the  former ;  amongst  others  my  captain ;  so  I'm 
in  command  of  the  company.  If  it  were  not  for  the  glorious 
privilege  of  grumbling,  I  tliink  we  shoidd  all  own  that  we 
liked  the  life.  Moving  about,  though  one  does  get  frozen 
and  broiled  regularly  once  in  twenty-four  hours,  suits  me ; 
besides,  they  talk  of  matters  commg  to  a  crisis,  and  no  end 
of  fighting  to  be  done  directly.  You'll  know  more  about 
what's  going  on  from  the  papers  than  we  do,  but  here  they 
say  the  ball  may  begin  any  day ;  so  we  are  making  forced 
marches  to  be  up  in  time.  I  wonder  how  I  shaU  like  it. 
Perhaps,  in  my  next,  I  may  tell  you  how  a  bullet  sounds 
when  it  comes  at  you.  If  there  is  any  fighting  I  expect  our 
regiment  will  make  their  mark.  We  are  in  tip-top  order  ;  the 
"'J  I  on  el  is  a  grand  fellow,  and   the  regiment  feels  his  hand 


THE   INTERCEPTED   LETTER-BAG.  487 

down  to  tlie  youngest  drummer  bo3^  Wliat  a  deal  of  good  I 
will  do  when  I'm  a  colonel ! 

"  I  duly  delivered  the  enclosure  in  your  last  to  your  con- 
vict, who  is  rapidly  ascending  the  ladder  of  promotion.  I 
am  disgusted  at  this  myself,  for  I  have  had  to  give  him  up, 
and  there  never  was  such  a  jewel  of  a  servant ;  but,  of  course, 
it's  a  great  thing  for  him.  He  is  covering  sergeant  of  my 
company,  and  the  smartest  coverer  we  have  too.  I  have  got 
a  regular  broth  of  a  boy,  an  Irishman,  in  his  place,  who  leads 
me  a  dog  of  a  life.  I  took  him  chiefly  because  he  very  nearly 
beat  me  in  a  foot-race.  Our  senior  major  is  a  Pat  himself, 
and,  it  seems,  knew  something  of  Larry's  powers.  So,  one 
day  at  mess,  he  offered  to  back  him  against  any  one  in  the 
regiment  for  200  yards.  My  captain  took  him  and  named 
me,  and  it  came  off  next  day  ;  and  a  precious  narrow  thing  it 
was,  but  I  managed  to  win  by  a  neck  for  the  honour  of  the  old 
school.  He  is  a  lazy  scatter-brained  creature,  utterly  indif- 
ferent to  fact,  and  I  am  obliged  to  keep  the  brandy  flask 
under  lock  and  key ;  but  the  humour  and  absolute  good- 
temper  of  the  animal  impose  upon  me,  and  I  really  think  he 
is  attached  to  me.  So  I  keep  him  on,  grumbling  horribly 
at  the  change  from  that  orderly,  punctual,  clean,  accurate 
convict.  Depend  upon  it,  that  fellow  will  do.  He  makes 
his  way  everywhere,  with  officers  and  men.  He  is  a  gentle- 
man at  heart,  and,  by  the  way,  you  would  be  surprised 
at  the  improvement  in  his  manners  and  speech.  Tliore  is 
hardly  a  taste  of  Berkshire  left  in  his  deecdect.  He  has  read 
all  the  books  I  could  lend  him,  or  borrow  for  him,  and  is  fast 
picking  up  Hindustanee.  So  3'ou  see,  after  all,  I  am  come 
round  to  your  opinion  that  we  did  a  good  afternoon's  work 
on  that  precious  stormy  common,  when  we  carried  off  the 
convict  from  the  authorities  of  his  native  land,  and  I  was 
first  under  fire.  As  you  are  a  performer  in  that  line,  couldn't 
you  carry  off  his  sweetheart,  and  send  her  out  here  1  After 
the  sea  voyage  there  isn't  much  above  1,000  miles  to  come  by 
dauk  ;  and  tell  her,  with  my  compliments,  he  is  well  worth 
coming  twice  the  distance  for.  Poor  fellow,  it  is  a  bad  look- 
out for  him  I'm  afraid,  as  he  may  not  get  home  this  ten  years  ; 
and,  though  he  isn't  a  kind  to  be  easily  killed,  there  are 
serious  odds  against  him,  even  if  he  keeps  all  right.  I  almost 
wish  you  had  never  told  me  his  story. 

"  We  are  going  into  cantonments  as  soon  as  this  expedition 
is  over,  in  a  splendid  pig  district,  and  1  look  forward  to  some 
real  sport.  All  the  men  who  have  had  any  tell  me  it  b(>ats 
the  best  fox-hunt  all  to  fits  for  excitement.  I  have  got  my 
eye  on  a  famous  native  horse,  who  is  to  be  had  oheap.     Tlie 


488  TOM    BROWN   A'i   OXFORD. 

brute  is  in  the  habit  of  kneeling  on  his  masters,  and  tearing 
them  with  his  teeth  when  he  gets  them  off,  but  nothing  can 
touch  him  while  you  keep  on  his  back.  '  Howsumdever,' 
as  your  countrymen  say,  I  shall  have  a  shy  at  him,  if  I 
can  get  him  at  my  price. 

"  I've  nothing  more  to  say.  There's  nobody  you  know  here, 
except  the  convict  sergeant,  and  it's  awfully  hard  to  fill  a 
letter  home  unless  you've  somebody  to  talk  about.  Yes,  by 
the  way,  there  is  one  little  fellow,  an  ensign,  just  joined,  who 
says  he  remembers  us  at  school.  He  can't  be  more  than 
eigliteen  or  nineteen,  and  was  an  urcliin  in  the  lower  school, 
I  suppose,  when  we  were  leaving.  I  don't  remember  his  face, 
but  it's  a  very  good  one,  and  he  is  a  bright  gentlemanly 
youngster  as  you  would  wish  to  see.  His  name  is  Jones.  Do 
you  remember  him  ?  He  will  be  a  godsend  to  me.  I  have 
him  to  chum  with  me  on  this  march. 

"  Keep  up  your  letters  as  you  love  me.  You  at  home 
little  know  wliat  it  is  to  enjoy  a  letter.  Never  mind  what  you 
put  in  it ;  anything  will  do  from  home,  and  I've  nobody 
else  much  to  write  to  me. 

"  There  goes  the  '  assembly.'  T\Tiy,  I  can't  think,  seeing 
we  have  done  our  day's  march.  However,  I  must  turn  out 
and  see  what's  up. 


"  December, 
"I  have  just  fallen  on  this  letter,  which  I  had  quite  forgotten, 
or,  rather,  had  fancied  I  had  sent  off  to  you  three  weeks  and 
more  ago.  My  baggage  has  just  come  to  hand,  and  the  scrawl 
turned  up  in  my  paper  case.  Well,  I  have  plenty  to  tell  you 
now,  at  any  rate,  if  I  have  time  to  tell  it.  That  'assembly' 
which  stojiped  me  short  sounded  in  consequence  of  the  arrival 
of  one  of  the  commander-in-chief's  aides  in  our  camp  with  the 
news  that  the  enemy  was  over  the  Sutlej.  We  were  to  march 
at  once,  with  two  six-pounders  and  a  squadron  of  cavalry,  on 
a  fort  occupied  by  an  out-lying  lot  of  them,  which  commanded 
a  ford,  and  was  to  be  taken  and  destroyed,  and  the  rascals  who 
held  it  dispersed  ;  after  which  we  were  to  join  the  main  army. 
Our  colonel  had  the  command  ;  so  we  were  on  the  route 
within  an  hour,  leaving  a  company  and  the  baggage  to  follow 
as  it  could  ;  and  from  that  time  to  this,  forced  marching  and 
hard  fighting  have  been  the  order  of  the  day. 

"  We  drew  first  blood  next  morning.  The  enemy  were  in 
some  force  outside  the  fort,  and  showed  fight  in  very  rough 
ground  covered  with  bushes ;  out  of  which  we  had  to  drive 
tiiem — which  we  did  after  a  sharp  struggle,  and  the  main  body 


THE   INTERCEPTED    LETTEB-BAG.  489 

drew  off  altogether.  Then  the  fort  had  to  he  taken.  Our 
two  guns  worked  away  at  it  till  dark.  In  the  night  two  of 
the  gunners,  who  volunteered  for  the  service,  crept  close  up 
to  the  place,  and  reported  that  there  was  nothing  to  hinder 
our  running  right  into  it.  Accordingly  the  colonel  resolved 
to  rush  it  at  daybreak,  and  my  company  was  told  olf  to  lead. 
The  captain  being  absent,  I  had  to  command.  I  was  with 
the  dear  old  chief  the  last  thing  at  night,  getting  his  instruc- 
tions :  ten  minutes  with  him  before  going  iBto  action  would 
make  a  hare  fight. 

"  There  was  cover  to  within  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of 
the  place ;  and  there  I,  and  poor  little  Jones,  and  the  men, 
spent  the  night  in  a  dry  ditch.     An  hour  before  daybreak  we 
were  on  the  alert,  and  served  out  rations,  and  then  they  began 
plapng  tricks  on  one  another  as  if  we  were  out  for  a  junketing. 
I  sat  with  my  watch  in  my  hand,  feeling  queer,  and  wondering 
whether  I  was  a  greater  coward  than  the  rest.     Then  came  a 
streak  of  light.     I  put  up  my  watch,  formed  the  men ;  up 
went  a  rocket,  my  signal,  and  out  into  the  open  we  went  at 
the  double.     We  hadn't  got  over  a  thii-d  of  the  ground  when 
bang  went  the  fort  guns,  and  the  grape-shot  were  whistling 
about  our  ears  ;  so  I  shouted  '  Forward  ! '  and  away  we  went 
as  hard  as  we  could  go.     I  was  obliged  to  go  ahead,  you  see, 
because  every  man  of  them  knew  I  had  beaten  Larry,  their 
best  runner,  when  he  had  no  gun  to  carry  ;  but  I  didn't  half 
like  it,  and  should  have  blessed  any  hole  or  bramble  which 
would  have  sent  me  over  and  given  them  time  to  catch  me. 
But  the  ground  was  provokingly  level ;  and  so  I  was  at  the 
first  mound  and  over  it  several  lengths  in  front  of  the  men, 
and  among  a  lot  of  black  fellows  serving  the  guns.    They  came 
at  me  like  wild  cats,  and  how  I  got  ofT  is  a  mystery.    I  parried 
a  cut  from  one  fellow,  and  dodged  a  second ;  a  third  rushed 
at  my  left  side.     I  just  caught  the  flash  of  his  tulwar,  and 
thought  it  was  all  up,  when  he  jumped  into  the  air,  shot 
through    the    heart   by  Sergeant  Winburn  ;    and   the   next 
moment  Master  Larry  rushed  by  me  and  plunged  his  bayonet 
into  my  friend  in  front.     It  turned  me  as  sick  as  a  dog.     I 
can't  fancy  anything  more  disagreeable  than  seeing  the  operation 
for  the  first  time,  except  being  struck  oneself.    The  supporting 
companies  were  in  in  another  minute,  with  the  dear  old  chief 
himself,  who  came  up  and  shook  hands  with  me,  and  said  I 
had  done  credit  to  the  regiment.    Then  I  began  to  look  about, 
ind  missed  poor  little  Jones.     "We  found  him  about  twenty 
yards  from  the  place,  with  two  grape-shot  through  him,  stone 
dead,  and  smiling  like  a  child  asleep.    We  buried  him  in  the 
fort.     I  cut  ofi"  some  of  his  hair,  and  sent  it  home  to  his 


400  rOM   BROAA'N   AT   OXFORD. 

mother.  Her  last  letter  was  in  his  breast  pocket,  and  a  loi.k 
oi'  bright  brown  hair  of  some  one's.  I  sent  them  back,  too, 
and  his  sword. 

"  Since  then  we  have  been  with  the  army,  and  had  three 
or  four  general  actions  ;  about  which  I  can  tell  you  nothing, 
except  that  we  have  lost  about  a  third  of  the  regiment,  and 
Lave  always  been  told  we  have  won.  Steps  go  fast  enough  ; 
my  captain  died  of  wounds  and  dysentery  a  week  ago ;  so  I 
have  the  company  in  earnest.  How  long  I  shall  hold  it  ig 
another  question  ;  for,  though  there's  a  slack,  we  haven't 
done  with  sharp  work  yet,  I  can  see. 

"  How  often  we've  talked,  years  ago,  of  what  it  must  feel 
like  going  into  battle  !  Well,  the  chief  thing  I  felt  when  the 
grape  came  down  pretty  thick  for  the  first  time,  as  we  were 
advancing,  was  a  sort  of  gripes  in  the  stomach  which  made 
me  want  to  go  forward  stooping.  But  I  didn't  give  in  to  it ; 
the  chief  was  riding  close  behind  us,  joking  the  youngsters 
who  were  ducking  their  heads,  and  so  cheery  and  cool,  that 
he  made  old  soldiers  of  us  at  once.  What  with  smoke,  and 
dust,  and  excitement,  you  know  scarcely  anything  of  what  is 
going  on.  The  finest  sight  I  have  seen  is  the  artillery  going 
into  action.  Nothing  stops  those  fellows.  Places  you  would 
crane  at  out  hunting  they  go  right  over,  guns,  carriages,  men, 
and  all,  leaving  any  cavalry  we've  got  out  here  well  behind. 
Do  you  know  what  a  nullah  is  ?  Well,  it's  a  great  gap,  like 
a  huge  dry  canal,  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  deep.  We  were  halted 
behind  one  in  the  last  great  fight,  waiting  the  order  to  advance, 
when  a  battery  came  up  at  full  gallop.  We  all  made  sure 
they  must  be  pulled  up  by  the  nullah.  They  never  pulled 
bridle.  'Leading  gun,  right  turn  !'  sang  out  the  subaltern  ; 
and  down  they  went  sideways  into  the  nullah.  Then,  '  Left 
turn  ; '  up  the  other  bank,  one  gun  after  another,  the  horses 
scrambling  like  cats  up  and  down  places  that  my  men  had  to 
use  their  hands  to  scramble  up,  and  away  on  the  other  side  to 
within  200  yards  of  the  enemy ;  and  then,  round  like  light- 
ning, and  look  out  in  front. 

"  Altogether  it's  sickening  work,  though  there's  a  grand 
sort  of  feeling  of  carrying  your  life  in  your  hand.  They  say 
the  Sepoy  regiments  have  behaved  shamefully.  There  is  no 
sign  of  anything  like  funk  amongst  our  fellows  that  I  have 
seen.  Sergeant  Winburn  has  distinguished  himself  every- 
where. He  is  like  my  shadow,  and  I  can  see  tries  to  watch 
over  my  precious  carcase,  and  get  between  me  and  danger. 
He  would  be  a  deal  more  missed  in  the  world  than  L  Except 
you,  old  friend,  I  don't  know  who  would  care  much  if  I  were 
knocked  over  to-morrow.     Aunts  and  cousins  are  my  nearest 


THE    INTERCErTED   LETTER-BAG.  491 

relations.  You  know  I  never  was  a  snuffler  ;  but  this  sort  of 
life  makes  one  serious,  if  one  has  any  reverence  at  all  in  one. 
You'll  be  glad  to  have  this  line,  if  you  don't  hear  from  me 
again.  I've  often  thought  in  the  last  month  that  we  shall 
never  see  one  another  again  in  this  world.  But,  whether  in 
this  world  or  any  other,  you  know  I  am  and  always  shall  be 
your  affectionate  friend,  "  H.  East." 

■'Camp  on  the  Sutlej, 

''January. 

"  Dear  Master  Tom, — The  captain's  last  words  was,  if 
anything  happened  I  was  to  be  sure  to  write  and  tell  you. 
And  so  I  take  up  my  pen,  though  you  will  know  as  I  am  not 
used  to  writing,  to  tell  you  the  misfortune  as  has  happened  to 
our  regiment.  Because,  if  you  was  to  ask  any  man  in  our 
regiment,  let  it  be  avIio  it  would,  he  would  say  as  the  captain 
was  the  best  officer  as  ever  led  men.  Not  but  what  there's  a 
many  of  them  as  will  go  to  the  front  as  brave  as  lions,  and 
don't  value  shot  no  more  than  if  it  was  rotten  apples  ;  and 
men  as  is  men  will  go  after  such.  But  'tis  the  captain's 
manner  and  ways,  with  a  kind  word  for  any  poor  fellow  as  is 
hiirt,  or  sick  and  tired,  and  making  no  account  of  hisself, 
and,  as  you  may  say,  no  bounce  with  him  ;  that's  what  makes 
the  difference. 

"  As  it  might  be  last  Saturday,  we  came  upon  the  enemy 
where  he  was  posted  very  strong,  with  guns  all  along  his  front, 
and  served  till  we  got  right  up  to  them,  the  gunners  being  cut 
down  and  bayoneted  when  we  got  right  up  amongst  them,  and 
no  quarter  given  ;  and  there  was  great  banks  of  earth,  too,  to 
clamber  over,  and  more  guns  behind  ;  so,  with  the  marching 
up  in  front  and  losing  so  many  officers  and  men,  our  regiment 
was  that  wild  when  we  got  amongst  them  'twas  awful  to  see,' 
and,  if  there  was  any  prisoners  taken,  it  was  more  by  mistake 
than  not. 

"  Me  and  three  or  four  more  settled,  when  the  word  came 
to  prepare  for  action,  to  keep  with  the  ca])tain,  because  'twas 
known  to  every  one  as  no  odds  would  stop  him,  and  he  would 
never  mina  iiisself.  The  dust  and  smoke  and  noise  was  that 
thick  you  couldn't  see  nor  hear  anything  after  our  regiment 
was  in  action  ;  but,  so  far  as  I  seen,  when  we  was  wheeled 
Into  line,  and  got  the  word  to  advance,  there  was  as  it  might 
be  as  far  as  from  our  old  cottage  to  the  Hawk's  Lynch  to  go 
over  before  we  got  to  the  guns,  which  was  plaj'ing  into  us  all 
the  way.  Our  line  went  up  very  steady,  only  where  men  was 
knocked  down ;  and,  when  we  come  to  within  a  matter  of 
sixty  yards,  the  officers  jumped  out  and  waved  their  swords, 


402  TOM   BTIOWN   AT   OXFOl^D. 

for  'twas  no  use  to  give  words,  and  the  ranks  was  broken  hj 
reason  of  the  running  up  to  take  the  guns  from  the  enemy. 
Me  and  the  rest  went  after  the  captain  ;  but  he,  being  so  light 
of  foot,  was  first,  by  may  be  ten  yards  or  so,  at  the  mound, 
and  so  up  before  we  was  by  him.  But,  though  they  was  all 
round  him  lil^e  bees  when  we  got  to  him,  'twas  not  then  as  ha 
was  hit.  There  was  more  guns  further  on,  and  we  and  they 
drove  on  all  together  ;  and,  though  they  was  beaten,  being 
fine  tall  men  and  desperate,  there  was  many  of  them  fighting 
hard,  and,  as  you  might  say,  a  man  scarcely  knowed  how  he 
got  hit.  I  kept  to  the  captain  as  close  as  ever  I  could,  but 
there  was  times  when  I  bad  to  mind  myself  Just  as  we 
come  to  the  last  guns,  Larry,  that's  the  captain's  servant,  wa3 
trying  by  hisself  to  turn  one  of  them  round,  so  as  to  fire  on 
the  enemy  as  they  took  the  river  to  the  back  of  their  linea 
all  in  a  huddle.  So  I  turned  to  lend  him  a  hand  ;  and,  when 
I  looked  round  next  moment,  there  was  the  captain  a  stag- 
gering like  a  drunken  man,  and  he  so  strong  and  lissom  up  to 
then,  and  never  had  a  scratch  since  the  war  begun,  and  this 
the  last  minute  of  it  pretty  nigh,  for  the  enemy  was  all  cut  to 
pieces  and  drowned  that  day.  I  got  to  him  before  he  fell, 
and  we  laid  him  down  gently,  and  did  the  best  we  could  for 
him.  But  he  was  bleeding  dreadful  with  a  great  gash  in  his 
side,  and  his  arm  broke,  and  two  gunshot  wounds.  Our 
surgeon  was  killed,  and  'twas  hours  before  his  wounds  was 
dressed,  and  'twill  be  God's  mercy  if  ever  he  gets  round  ; 
though  they  do  say,  if  the  fever  and  dysentery  keeps  off,  and 
he  can  get  out  of  this  country  and  home,  there's  no  knowing 
but  he  may  get  the  better  of  it  all,  but  not  to  serve  with  the 
regiment  again  for  years  to  come. 

"  I  hope.  Master  Tom,  as  I've  told  you  all  the  captain 
would  like  as  you  should  know  ;  only,  not  being  much  used 
to  writing,  I  hope  you  will  excuse  mistakes.  And,  if  so  be 
that  it  won't  be  too  much  troubling  of  you,  and  the  captain 
should  go  home,  and  you  could  write  to  say  how  things  was 
going  on  at  home  as  before,  wnich  the  captain  always  gave 
to  me  to  read  when  the  mail  come  in,  it  would  be  a  great 
help  towards  keeping  up  of  a  good  heart  in  a  foreign  land, 
which  is  hard  at  times  to  do.  There  is  some  things  which  I 
make  bold  to  send  by  a  comrade  going  home  sick.  I  don't 
know  as  they  will  seem  much,  but  I  hope  as  you  will  accept 
of  the  sword,  which  belonged  to  one  of  their  officers,  and  the 
rest  to  her.  Also,  on  account  of  what  was  in  the  last  piece 
as  you  forwarded,  I  send  a  letter  to  go  along  with  the  things, 
if  Miss  Winter,  who  have  been  so  kind,  or  you,  would  deliver 
the  same.    To  whom  I  make  bold  to  send  my  respects  as  wuil 


THE  INTERCEPTED   LETTEE-BAG.  493 

Bs  to  yourself,  and  hoping  this   will  find   you  well  and  aU 
liiends,  and  "  From  your  respecful, 

"Henry  Winburn, 
"  Colour-sergeant,  lOlst  Regimeut.  " 

'^  March. 
"  My  Dear  Tom, — I  begin  to  think  I  may  see  you  again 
yet,  but  it  has  been  a  near  shave.  I  hope  Sergeant  Winburn's 
letter,  and  the  returns,  in  which  I  see  I  was  put  down 
"  dangerously  wounded,"  will  not  have  frightened  you  very 
much.  The  war  is  over  ;  and,  if  I  live  to  get  down  to  Cal- 
cutta you  will  see  me  in  the  summer,  please  God.  The  end 
was  like  the  beginning — going  right  up  to  guns.  Our 
regiment  is  frightfully  cut  up ;  there  are  only  300  men  left 
under  arms — the  rest  dead  or  in  hospital.  I  am  sick  at  heart 
at  it,  and  weak  in  body,  and  can  only  wi-ite  a  few  lines  at  a 
time,  but  will  get  on  with  this  as  I  can,  in  time  for  next  mail. 
•  *  »  *  * 

"Since  beginning  this  letter  I  have  had  another  relapse. 
So,  in  case  I  should  never  finish  it,  I  will  say  at  once  what  I 
most  want  to  say.  Winburn  has  saved  my  life  more  than 
once,  and  is  besides  one  of  the  noblest  and  bravest  fellows  in 
the  world  ;  so  I  mean  to  provide  for  him  in  case  anytliing 
should  happen  to  me.  I  have  made  a  will,  and  appointed 
you  my  executor,  and  left  him  a  legacy.  You  must  buy  hia 
discharge,  and  get  him  home  and  married  to  the  Englebourn 
beauty  as  soon  as  possible.  But  what  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand is,  that  if  the  legacy  isn't  enough  to  do  this,  and  make 
all  straight  with  her  old  curmudgeon  of  a  father,  it  is  my 
first  wish  that  whatevev  will  do  it  should  be  made  up  to  him. 
He  has  been  in  hospital  with  a  bad  flesh  wound,  and  has  let 
out  to  me  the  whole  of  his  story,  of  which  you  had  oidy 
given  me  the  heads.  If  that  young  woman  does  not  wait  for 
him,  and  book  him,  I  shall  give  up  all  faith  in  petticoats. 
Now  that's  done  I  feel  more  at  ease. 

"  Let  me  see.  I  haven't  written  for  six  weeks  and  more, 
just  before  our  last  great  fight.  You'll  know  all  about  it 
from  the  papers  long  before  you  get  this — a  bloody  business 
— I  am  loath  to  think  of  it.  I  was  knocked  over  in  the  last 
of  their  entrenchments,  and  should  then  and  there  have  bled 
to  death  had  it  not  been  for  Winburn.  He  never  left  me, 
though  the  killing,  and  plundering,  and  roystering  afterwards, 
was  going  on  all  around,  and  strong  temptation  to  a  fellow 
when  his  blood  is  up,  and  he  sees  his  comrades  at  it,  after 
ptich  work  as  we  had  had.  What's  more,  he  caught  my  Irish 
fellow  and  made  him  stay  by  me  too,  and  between  them  they 


4ii4  TOM   BllOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

managed  to  prop  me  up  and  stop  the  bleediug,  though  it  was 
touch  and  go.  I  uever  thought  they  would  manage  it.  You 
can't  think  what  a  curious  feeling  it  is,  the  life  going  out  of 
you.  I  WU3  perfectly  conscious,  and  knew  all  tliey  were  dohig 
and  saying,  and  thought  quite  clearly,  though  in  a  sort  of 
dreamy  way,  about  you,  and  a  whole  jumble  of  people  and 
things  at  home.  It  was  the  most  curious  painless  mixture  of 
dream  and  life,  getting  more  dreamy  every  minute.  I  don't 
suppose  I  could  have  opened  my  eyes  or  spoken ;  at  any  rate 
I  had  no  wish  to  do  so,  and  didn't  try.  Several  times  the 
thought  of  death  came  close,  to  me  ;  and,  whether  it  was  the 
odd  state  I  was  in,  or  what  else  I  don't  know,  but  the  only 
feeling  I  had,  was  one  of  iuteuoe  curiosity.  I  sliould  think 
I  must  have  lain  there,  with  Wiuburn  supporting  my  head, 
and  moistening  my  Ups  with  rum-and- water,  for  four  or  five 
hours,  before  a  doctor  could  be  got.  He  had  managed  to 
drive  Larry  about  till  he  had  found,  or  borrowed,  or  stolen 
the  drink,  and  then  kept  him  making  short  cruises  in  search 
of  help  in  the  shape  of  hospital-staff,  ambulances,  or  doctors, 
from  which  Master  Larry  always  came  back  without  the 
eliglitest  success.  My  belief  is,  he  employed  those  pre^^ious 
minutes,  when  he  was  from  under  his  Serjeant's  eye,  in  looting. 
At  last,  AVinburn  got  impatient,  and  I  heard  him  telling 
Larry  what  he  was  to  do  while  he  was  gone  himself  to  find  a 
doctor ;  and  then  I  was  moved  as  gently  as  if  I  had  been  a 
sick  girl.  I  heard  him  go  off  with  a  limp,  but  did  not  know 
till  long  after  of  his  wound. 

"  Larry  had  made  such  a  wailing  and  to-do  when  they  first 
found  me,  that  a  natural  reaction  now  set  in,  and  he  began 
gently  and  tenderly  to  run  over  in  his  mind  what  could  be 
made  out  of  'the  captin,'  and  what  would  become  of  his 
things.  I  found  out  this,  partly  thi'ough  his  habit  of  talking 
to  himself,  and  })artly  from  the  precaution  which  he  took  of 
ascertaining  where  my  watch  and  purse  were,  and  what  else 
T  had  upon  me.  It  tickkd  me  immensely  to  hear  him. 
Presently  T  found  he  was  examining  my  boots,  which  he 
pronounced  'iligant  entirely,' and  wondered  whether  he  coxild 
get  them  on.  The  '  serjint '  would  never  want  them.  And 
he  then  proceeded  to  assei"t»  while  he  actually  began  unlacing 
them,  that  the  '  captin '  would  never  have  '  bet  him '  but  for 
the  boots,  which  '  was  wf.rth  ten  feet  in  a  furlong  to  any 
man.'  '  Shure  'tis  too  late  now ;  but  wouldn't  I  like  to  run 
him  agin  with  the  bare  /eet  ? '  I  couldn't  stand  that,  and 
just  opened  my  eyes  a  little,  and  moved  my  hand,  and  said, 
'  Done.'  I  wanted  to  add,  'you  rascal,'  but  that  was  too  much 
for  me,     Larry's  fai-**  nf  horror,  which  I  just  caught  thi-ough 


master's  term.  495 

my  half-opened  eyes,  wonM  have  made  me  roar,  if  I  had  had 
strength  for  it.  I  helieve  the  resolution  I  made  that  he  should 
never  go  about  in  my  boots  liclped  me  to  pull  through  ;  but, 
as  soon  as  Winburn  came  back  with  the  doctor.  Master  Larry 
departed,  and  I  much  doubt  whether  I  shall  ever  set  eyes  on 
hiin  again  in  the  flesh.  Not  if  he  can  help  it,  certainly.  The 
regiment,  what's  left  of  it,  is  away  in  the  Punjaub,  and  he 
with  it.  Winburn,  as  I  told  you,  is  hard  hit,  but  no  danger. 
1  have  great  hopes  that  he  will  be  invalidetl.  You  may  depend 
upon  it  he  will  escort  me  home,  if  any  interest  of  mine  can 
manage  it ;  and  the  dear  old  chief  is  so  kind  to  me  that  I 
think  he  will  arrange  it  somehow. 

"  1  must  be  wonderfully  better  to  have  spun  such  a  yarn. 
Writing  those  first  ten  lines  nearly  finished  me,  a  week  ago, 
and  now  I  am  scarcely  tired  after  all  this  scrawl.  If  that 
rascal,  Larry,  escapes  hanging  another  year,  and  comes  back 
home,  I  will  run  him  yet,  and  thrash  his  head  off. 

"  There  is  something  marvellously  life-giving  in  the  idea  of 
sailing  for  old  England  again  ;  and  I  mean  to  make  a  strong 
fight  for  seeing  you  again,  old  boy.  God  bless  you.  Write 
again  for  the  chance,  directing  to  my  agents  at  Calcutta,  as 
before.  Ever  your  half-alive,  but  whole-hearted  and  afi'ec- 
tionate  fricntl,  "  H.  East." 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

master's  term. 

One  more  look  into  the  old  college  where  we  have  spent 
so  much  time  already,  not,  I  hope,  altogether  unpleasantly. 
Our  hero  is  up  in  the  summer  term,  keeping  his  three  weeks' 
residence,  the  necessary  preliminary  to  an  M.A.  degree.  We 
find  him  sitting  in  Hardy's  rooms  ;  tea  is  over,  scouts  out  of 
colhige,  candles  lighted,  and  silence  reigning,  except  when 
distant  sounds  of  mirth  come  from  some  undergraduates'  rooms 
on  the  opjjosite  side  of  quad,  through  the  open  windows. 

Hardy  is  deep  in  the  budget  of  Indian  letters,  some  of 
which  we  have  read  in  the  last  chapter ;  and  Tom  reads 
them  over  again  as  his  friend  finishes  them,  and  then  care- 
fully folds  them  up  and  puts  them  back  in  their  places  in  a 
large  pocket-case.  Except  an  occasional  explanatory  remark, 
or  exclamation  of  interest,  no  word  passes  until  Hardy  finishes 
the  last  letter.  Then  he  breaks  out  into  praises  of  the  two 
Harrys,  which  gladden  Tom's  heart  as  he  fastens  the  case,  and 
puts  it  back  in  his  pocket,  saying,  "Yes,  you  won't  find  two 
finer  fellows  in  a  long  summer's  day ;  no,  nor  in  twenty." 


49G  TOM    BROWTS    AT    OXFORD. 

"  And  you  expect  them  home,  then,  in  a  week  or  two  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  Just  about  the  time  I  shall  be  going 
down." 

"  Don't  talk  about  going  down.  You  haven't  been  here  a 
week." 

"  Just  a  week.  One  out  of  three.  Three  weeks  wasted  in 
keeping  one's  Master's  term !  Why  can't  you  give  a  fellow 
his  degree  quietly,  without  making  him  come  and  kick  his 
heels  here  for  three  weeks  1 " 

"  You  ungrateful  dog  !  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  haven't 
enjoyed  coming  back,  and  sitting  in  dignity  in  the  bachelors' 
seats  in  chapel,  and  at  the  bachelors'  table  in  hall,  and  thinking 
how  much  wiser  you  are  than  the  undergraduates  1  Besides, 
your  old  friends  want  to  see  you,  and  you  ought  to  want  to 
see  them." 

"  Well,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  something  of  you  again,  old 
fellow.  I  don't  find  that  a  year's  absence  has  made  any 
change  in  you.  But  who  else  is  there  that  I  care  to  see  1 
^ly  old  friends  are  gone,  and  the  year  has  made  a  great  gap 
between  me  and  the  youngsters.  They  look  on  me  as  a  sort 
of  don." 

"  Of  course  they  do.  Why,  you  are  a  sort  of  don.  You 
will  be  an  M.A.  in  a  fortnight,  and  a  member  of  Convoca- 
tion." 

"  Very  likely  ;  but  I  don't  appreciate  the  dignity.  I  can 
tell  you  being  up  here  now  is  anything  but  enjoyable.  You 
have  never  broken  with  the  place.  And  then,  you  always 
did  your  duty,  and  have  done  the  college  credit.  You  can't 
enter  into  the  feelings  of  a  fellow  whose  connexion  with 
Oxford  has  been  quite  broken  off,  and  who  wasted  three 
parts  of  his  time  here,  when  he  comes  back  to  keep  his 
]M  aster's." 

"  Come,  come,  Tom.  You  might  have  read  more,  certainly, 
with  benefit  to  yourself  and  the  college,  and  taken  a  higher 
degree.  But,  after  all,  didn't  the  place  do  you  a  great  deal 
of  good  1  and  you  didn't  do  it  much  harm.  I  don't  like  to 
see  you  in  this  sort  of  gloomy  state ;  it  isn't  natural  to 
you." 

"  It  is  becoming  natural  You  haven't  seen  much  of  me 
during  the  last  year,  or  you  would  have  remarked  it.  And 
then,  as  I  tell  you,  Oxford,  when  one  has  nothing  to  do  in  it 
but  to  moon  about,  thinking  over  one's  past  follies  and  sins, 
isn't  cheerful.  It  never  was  a  very  cheerful  place  to  me  at 
the  best  of  times." 

"  Not  even  at  pulling  times  1 " 

"  Well,  the  river  is  the  part  I  like  best  to  think  o£     But 


MASTER'S   TERM.  407 

pven  the  river  makos  me  rather  melancholy  now.  One  feels 
one  has  done  with  it." 

"  Why,  Tom,  I  believe  your  melancholy  comes  from  their 
not  having  asked  you  to  pull  in  the  boat." 

"  Perhaps  it  does.  Don't  you  call  it  degrading  to  he  pulling 
in  the  torpid  in  one's  old  age  '?  " 

"Mortified  vanity,  man  !  They  have  a  capital  boat.  I  wonder 
how  we  should  have  liked  to  have  been  turned  out  for  some 
bachelor  just  because  he  had  pulled  a  good  oar  in  his  day  1 " 

"  Not  at  all.  I  don't  blame  the  young  ones,  and  I  hope  I 
do  my  duty  in  the  torpid.  By  the  way,  they're  an  uncom- 
monly nice  set  of  youngsters.  Much  better  behaved  in  every 
way  than  we  were,  uidess  it  is  that  they  put  on  their  best 
manners  before  me." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  they  do.  The  fact  is,  they  are  really 
fine  young  fellows." 

"  So  I  think.  And  I'll  tell  you  what,  Jack  ;  since  we  are 
sitting  and  talking  our  minds  to  one  another  at  last,  lilie  old 
times,  somebody  has  made  the  most  wonderful  change  in  this 
college.  I  rather  think  it  is  seeing  what  St.  Ambrose's  is  now, 
and  thinking  what  it  was  in  my  time,  and  what  an  uncommon 
member  of  society  I  should  have  turned  out  if  I  had  had  the 
luck  to  have  been  here  now  instead  of  then,  that  makes  me 
down  in  the  mouth — more  even  than  having  to  pull  in  the 
torpid  instead  of  the  racing  boat." 

"  You  do  think  it  is  improved,  then  1 " 

"  Think  !  Why  it  is  a  different  place  altogether  ;  and,  as 
you  are  the  only  new  tutor,  it  must  have  been  your  doing. 
Now,  I  want  to  know  your  secret." 

"  I've  no  secret,  except  taking  a  real  interest  in  all  that  the 
men  do,  and  living  with  them  as  much  as  I  can.  You  may 
fancy  it  isn't  much  of  a  trial  to  me  to  steer  the  boat  down,  or 
run  on  the  bank  and  coach  the  crew." 

"  Ah  !  I  remember ;  you  were  beginning  that  before  I  left, 
in  your  first  year.     I  knew  that  would  answer." 

"  Yes.  The  fact  is,  I  find  that  just  what  I  like  best  is  the 
very  best  thing  for  the  men.  With  very  few  exceptions  they 
are  all  glad  to  be  stirred  up,  and  meet  me  nearly  half-way  in 
reading,  and  three-quarters  in  everything  else.  I  beheve  they 
would  make  me  captain  to-morrow." 

"  And  why  don't  you  let  them,  then  1 " 

"  No  ;  there's  a  time  for  everything.  I  go  in  in  the  scratch 
fours  for  the  pewters,  and — more  by  token — my  crew  won  them 
two  years  rimning.  Look  at  my  trophies,"  and  he  pointed  to 
two  pewter  pots,  engraved  with  the  college  arms,  which  stood 
un  his  side-board. 


498  TOM    BKOWN   AT    OXFORD. 

""Well,  T  dare  say  you're  right.     But  what  does  the  presi 
dent  say  1 " 

"  Oh,  he  is  a  convert.  Didn't  you  see  him  on  the  bank 
■when  you  torpids  made  your  bump  the  other  night  1 " 

"  No,  you  don't  mean  it  1  Well,  do  you  know,  a  sort  of 
vision  of  black  tights,  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  crossed  me, 
but  I  never  gave  it  a  second  thought.  And  so  the  president 
comes  out  to  see  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  row  1 " 

"  Seldom  misses  two  nights  running." 

"  Then,  '  carry  me  out,  and  bury  me  decently.'  Have  you 
seen  old  Tom  walking  round  Peck  water  lately  on  his  clapper, 
smoking  a  cigar  with  the  Dean  of  Cliristchurch  ?  Don't  be 
afraid.  I  am  ready  for  anything  you  like  to  tell  me.  Draw 
any  amount  you  like  on  my  faith ;  I  shall  honour  the  draft 
after  that." 

"  The  president  isn't  a  bad  judge  of  an  oar,  when  he  sets 
his  mind  to  it." 

"  Isn't  he  ]  But,  I  say,  Jack — no  sell — how  in  the  world 
did  it  happen?" 

"  I  believe  it  happened  chiefly  through  his  talks  with  me. 
WTien  I  was  tirst  made  tutor  he  sent  for  me  and  told  nic  he 
had  heard  I  encouraged  the  young  men  in  boating,  and  he 
must  positively  forbid  it.  1  didn't  much  care  about  staying 
up ;  so  I  was  pretty  plain  with  him,  and  said,  '  if  I  was  not 
allowed  to  take  the  line  I  thought  best  in  such  matters  I 
must  resign  at  the  end  of  term.'  He  assented,  but  afterwards 
thought  better  of  it,  and  sent  for  me  again,  and  we  had  several 
encounters.  I  took  my  ground  very  civilly  but  firmly,  and 
he  had  to  give  up  one  objection  after  another.  I  think  the 
turning-point  was  when  he  quoted  St.  Paul  on  me,  and  said 
I  was  teaching  boys  to  worship  physical  strength,  instead  of 
teaching  them  to  keep  under  their  bodies  and  bring  them  into 
subjection.  Of  course  I  countered  him  there  with  tremendous 
effect.  The  old  boy  took  it  very  well,  only  saying  he  feared 
it  was  no  use  to  argue  further — in  this  matter  of  boat-racing 
he  had  come  to  a  conclusion,  not  without  serious  thouglit, 
many  years  before.  However,  he  came  round  quietly.  And 
so  he  has  on  other  points.  In  fact,  lie  is  a  wonderfully  open- 
minded  man  for  his  age,  if  you  only  put  things  to  him  the 
right  way." 

*'  Has  he  come  mund  about  gentlemen-commoners  ?  I  see 
you've  only  two  or  three  up." 

"  Yes.  We  haven't  given  up  taking  them  altogether.  I 
hope  that  may  come  soon.  But  I  and  another  tutor  took  to 
plucking  them  ruthlessly  at  matriculation,  unless  they  weie 
quite  up  to  the  commoner  standard.     The  consequence  was,  a 


master's  term.  499 

row  in  commoii  room.  We  stood  out,  and  won.  Luclcily,  as 
you  know,  it  has  always  been  given  out  here  that  all  under- 
graduates, geutlemen-coumiouers  and  commoners,  have  to  pass 
the  same  college  examiuations,  and  to  attend  the  same  course.*? 
of  lectures.  You  know  also  what  a  mere  sham  and  pretence 
the  rule  had  become.  Well,  we  simply  made  a  reality  of  it, 
and  in  answer  to  all  objectors  said,  '  Is  it  our  rule  or  not  1 
If  it  is,  we  are  bound  to  act  on  it.  If  you  want  to  alter  it, 
there  are  the  regular  ways  of  doing  so.'  After  a  little  grumb- 
ling they  let  us  have  our  way,  and  the  consequence  is,  that 
velvet  is  getting  scarce  at  St.  Ambrose." 

"  What  a  blessing !  What  other  miracles  have  you  been 
performing  t " 

"  The  best  reform  we  have  carried  is  throwing  the  kitchen 
and  cellar  open  to  the  undergraduates." 

"  W-h-e-w  !  That's  just  the  sort  of  reform  we  should  have 
appreciated.  Fancy  Drysdale's  lot  with  the  key  of  the  college 
cellars,  at  about  ten  o'clock  on  a  shiny  night." 

"  You  don't  quite  understand  the  refoi'm.  You  remember, 
when  you  were  an  undergraduate  you  couldn't  give  a  dhiner 
in  college,  and  you  had  to  buy  your  wine  anywhere  t " 

"  Yes.  And  awful  firewater  we  used  to  get.  The  governor 
supplied  me,  like  a  wise  man." 

"  Well,  we  have  placed  the  college  in  the  relation  of 
benevolent  father.  Every  undergraduate  now  can  give  two 
dinners  a  term  in  his  own  rooms,  from  the  kitchen ;  or  more, 
if  he  comes  and  asks,  and  has  any  reason  to  give.  We  take 
care  that  they  have  a  good  dinner  at  a  reasonable  rate,  and 
the  men  are  delighted  with  the  ai-rangement.  I  don't  believe 
there  are  three  men  in  the  college  now  who  have  hotel  bills. 
And  we  let  them  have  aU  their  wine  out  of  the  college 
cellars." 

"That's  what  I  caU  good  common-sense.  Of  course  it 
must  answer  ia  every  way.  And  you  find  they  all  come 
to  you  ? " 

"Almost  all.  They  can't  get  anything  like  the  wine  we 
give  them  at  the  price,  and  they  know  it." 

"  Do  you  make  them  pay  ready  money  1 " 

"  The  dinners  and  wine  are  charged  in  their  battel  bills  ; 
so  they  have  to  pay  once  a  term,  just  as  they  do  for  their 
orders  at  commons." 

"  It  must  swell  their  battel  bills  awfully." 

"  Yes,  but  battel  bills  always  come  in  at  the  beginning  of 
term,  when  they  are  flush  of  money.  Besides,  they  all  know 
that  battel  bills  must  be  paid.  In  a  small  way  it  is  the  best 
thing  that  ever  was  done  for  St.  Ambrose's.     Yoi  see  it  -^uts 

K  K  2 


500  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

60  many  ways.  Keeps  men  in  college,  knocks  off  the  most 
objectionable  bills  at  inns  and  pastry-cooks',  keeps  them  from 
being  poisoned,  makes  them  pay  their  bills  regularly,  shows 
them  that  we  like  them  to  be  able  to  live  like  gentlemen — " 

"  And  lets  you  dons  know  what  they  are  all  about,  and 
how  much  they  spend  in  the  way  of  entertaining." 

''  Yes  ;  and  a  very  good  thing  for  them  too.  They  know 
that  we  shall  not  interfere  while  they  behave  like  gentlemen." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  objecthig.     And  was  this  your  doing,  too  1 " 

"  1^0  ;  a  joint  business.  We  hatched  it  in  the  common 
room,  and  then  the  bursar  spoke  to  the  president,  who  was 
fuiious,  and  said  we  were  giving  the  sanction  of  the  college 
to  disgraceful  luxury  and  extravagance.  Luckily  he  had  not 
the  power  of  stopping  us,  and  now  is  convinced." 

"  The  goddess  of  common-sense  seems  to  have  alighted 
again  in  tlie  quad  of  St.  Ambrose.  You'll  never  leave  the 
place.  Jack,  now  you're  beginning  to  get  everything  your  own 
way." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  don't  mean  to  stop  up  more  than 
another  year  at  the  outside.  I  have  been  tutor  nearly  three 
years  now  ;  that's  about  long  enough." 

"Do  you  think  you're  right?  You  seem  to  have  hit  on 
your  line  in  life  wonderfully.  You  like  the  work,  and  the 
work  likes  you.  You  are  doing  a  heap  of  good  up  here. 
You'll  be  president  in  a  year  or  two,  depend  on  it.  I  should 
say  you  had  better  stick  to  Oxford." 

"  No.  I  should  be  of  no  use  in  a  year  or  two.  "We  want 
a  constant  current  of  fresh  blood  here." 

"  In  a  geueral  way.  But  you  don't  get  a  man  every  day 
who  can  throw  himself  into  the  m«n's  pursuits,  and  can  get 
hold  of  them  in  the  right  way.  And  then,  after  all,  when  a 
fellow  has  got  such  work  cut  out  for  him  as  you  have,  Oxford 
must  be  an  uncommonly  pleasant  place  to  live  in." 

"  Pleasant  enough  in  many  ways.  But  you  seem  to  have 
forgotten  how  you  used  to  rail  against  it. 

"  Yes.  Because  I  never  hit  off  the  right  ways  of  the 
place.  But,  if  I  had  taken  a  fii-st  and  got  a  fellowship,  I 
should  like  it  well  enough,  I  dare  say." 

"  Being  a  fellow,  on  the  contrary,  makes  it  worse.  While 
one  was  an  undergraduate  one  could  feel  virtuous  and  indig- 
nant at  the  vices  of  Oxford,  at  least  at  those  which  one  did 
not  indulge  in,  particularly  at  the  flunkeyism  and  money- 
worship  which  are  our  most  prevalent  and  disgraceful  sins. 
But  when  one  is  a  fellow  it  is  quite  another  affair.  They 
become  a  sore  burthen  then,  enough  to  break  one's  heart." 

"  Why,  Jack,  we're  changing  characters  to-night.     Fancy 


WASTERS   TERM.  501 

your  coming  out  in  the  abusive  line  !  Wliy,  I  never  said 
lutrder  tilings  of  Alma  Mater  myself.  However,  there's 
plenty  of  flunk eyism  and  money-worship  everywhere  else." 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  is  not  so  heartbreaking  in  other  places. 
When  one  thinks  what  a  great  centre  of  learning  and  faitli 
like  Oxford  ought  to  be — that  its  highest  educational  work 
should  just  be  the  deliverance  of  us  all  from  flunkeyism  and 
money-worship — and  then  looks  at  matters  here  without  rose- 
coloured  spectacles,  it  ^ives  one  sometimes  a  sort  of  chilly 
leaden  despondency,  which  is  very  hard  to  struggle  against." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  talk  like  that,  Jack,  for  one  can't 
help  loving  the  place  after  all." 

"  So  I  do,  God  knows.  If  I  didn't  I  shouldn't  care  for  its 
shortcomings." 

"  Well,  the  flunkej-ism  and  money- worship  were  bad 
enough,  but  I  don't  think  they  were  the  worst  things — at 
least  not  in  my  day.  Our  neglects  were  almost  worse  than 
our  worships." 

"You  mean  the  want  of  all  reverence  for  parents  ]  Well, 
pi^rhaps  that  lies  at  the  root  of  the  false  worships.  They 
spring  up  on  the  vacant  soil." 

"  And  the  want  of  reverence  for  women.  Jack.  The  worst 
of  all,  to  my  mind  ! " 

"Perhaps  you  are  right.    But  we  are  not  at  the  bottom  yet." 

"  How  do  you  mean  1 " 

"  I  mean  that  we  must  worship  God  before  we  can  rever- 
ence parents  or  women,  or  root  out  flunkeyism  and  money- 
worship." 

"  Yes.  But  after  all  can  we  fairly  lay  that  sin  on  OxfoT-d  ? 
Surely,  whatever  may  be  growing  up  side  by  side  with  it, 
there's  more  Christianity  here  than  almost  anywhere  else." 

"  Plenty  of  common  room  Christianity — belief  in  a  dead 
God.  There,  I  have  never  said  it  to  any  one  but  you,  but 
that  is  the  slough  we  have  to  get  out  of.  Don't  think  that  I 
despair  for  us.  We  shall  do  it  yet ;  but  it  vrill  be  sore  work, 
stripping  off"  the  comfortable  wine-party  religion  in  which  we 
are  wrapped  up — work  for  our  strongest  and  our  msest" 

"  And  yet  you  think  of  leaving  1 " 

"  There  are  other  reasons.  I  will  tell  you  some  day.  But 
now,  to  turn  to  other  matters,  how  have  you  been  getting  on 
this  last  year  ?  You  write  so  seldom  that  I  am  all  behind- 
hand." 

"  Oh,  much  the  same  as  usual." 

"Then  you  are  still  like  one  of  those  who  went  out  to 
David  1 " 

"  Xo,  I'm  not  in  debt." 


O02  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFOED. 

"  But  discontented  1  " 

"Pretty  much  like  you  there,  Jack.  However,  content  is 
no  vii'tue,  that  I  can  see,  wliile  tliere's  anything  to  mend. 
Who  is  going  to  be  contented  with  game-preserving,  and 
corn-laws,  and  grinding  the  faces  of  the  poor  t  David's 
camp  was  a  better  place  than  Saul's,  any  day." 

Hardy  got  up,  opened  a  drawer,  and  took  out  a  bundle  of 
papers,  which  Tom  recognised  as  the  Wessex  Freeman.  He 
felt  rather  uncomfortable,  as  his  friend  seated  himself  again, 
and  began  looking  them  over. 

"  You  see  what  I  have  here,"  he  said. 

Tom  nodded. 

"  Well,  there  are  some  of  the  articles  I  should  like  to  ask 
you  abuut,  if  you  don't  object." 

"No;  go  on." 

"  Here  is  one,  then,  to  begin  with.  T  won't  read  it  all. 
Let  me  see ;  here  is  what  I  was  looking  for,"  and  he  began 
reading  :  "  One  would  think,  to  hear  these  landlords,  our 
rulers,  talk,  that  the  glorious  green  fields,  the  deep  woods, 
the  everlasting  hills,  and  the  rivers  that  run  among  them, 
were  made  for  the  sole  purpose  of  ministering  to  their 
greedy  lusts  and  mean  ambitions ;  that  they  may  roll  out 
amongst  unrealities  their  pitiful  mock  lives,  from  their  silk 
and  lace  cradles  to  their  spangled  coffins,  studded  with  silver 
knobs,  and  lying  coats  of  arms,  reaping  where  they  have  not 
sown,  and  gathering  where  they  have  not  strewed  ;  making 
the  omer  small  and  the  ephah  great,  that  they  may  sell  the 
refuse  of  the  wheat '  " 

"That'll  do.  Jack  ;  but  what's  the  date  of  that  paper?" 

"  July  last.     Is  it  yours,  then  %  " 

"  Yes.  And  I  allow  it's  too  strong  and  one-sided.  I  have 
given  up  writing  altogether  ;  will  that  satisfy  you  %  I  don't 
see  my  own  way  clear  enough  yet.  But  for  all  that  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  what  I  wrote  in  that  paper." 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say  after  that,  except  that  I'm 
heartily  glad  you  have  given  up  writing  for  the  present." 

"  But  I  say,  old  felluw,  how  did  you  get  these  papers,  and 
know  about  my  articles  1 " 

"  They  were  sent  me.  Shall  I  burn  them  now,  or  would 
you  like  to  have  them  ]  We  needn't  say  anything  more 
about  them." 

"  Burn  them  by  all  means.  I  suppose  a  friend  sent  them 
to  you  ? " 

"  I  suppose  so."  Hardy  went  on  burning  the  papers  in 
silence  ;  and  as  Tom  watched  him,  a  sudden  light  seemed  to 
break  upon  him. 


FROM    INDIA  TO   ENGLEBOURN.  503 

'*  T  say,  Jack,"  he  said  presently,  "  a  little  bird  has  been 
whispering  something  to  me  about  that  friend."  Hardy 
winced  a  little,  and  redoubled  his  diligence  in  burning  the 
papers.  Tom  looked  on  smiling,  and  thinking  how  to  go  on 
now  that  he  had  so  unexpectedly  turned  the  tables  on  his 
monitor,  when  the  clock  struck  twelve. 

**  Hullo !"  he  said,  getting  up  ;  "time  for  me  to  knock  out, 
or  old  Copas  wiU  be  in  bed.  To  go  back  to  where  we  started 
from  to-night — as  soon  as  East  and  Harry  Winburn  get  back 
we  shall  have  some  joUy  doings  at  Euglebourn.  Tliere'U  be 
a  wedding,  I  hope,  and  you'll  come  over  and  do  parson  for 
us,  won't  you  1 " 

"  You  mean  for  Patty  ?     Of  course  I  will" 

"  The  little  bird  whispered  to  me  that  you  wouldn't  dislike 
visiting  that  part  of  the  old  county.  Good-night,  Jack.  I 
wish  you  success,  old  fellow,  with  all  my  heart,  and  I  hope 
after  all  that  you  may  leave  St.  Ambrose's  within  the  year." 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

FROM    INDIA    TO    ENGLEBOURN^. 

If  a  knowledge  of  contemporary  history  must  be  reckoned 
as  an  important  element  in  the  civilization  of  any  people, 
tiien  I  am  atraid  that  the  good  folk  of  Englebourn  must  have 
been  content,  in  the  days  of  our  story,  with  a  very  low  place 
on  the  ladder.  How,  indeed,  was  knowledge  to  percolate,  so 
as  to  reach  down  to  the  foundations  of  Englebouruian  society 
— the  stratum  upon  which  all  others  rest — the  common 
agricultural  labourer,  producer  of  corn  and  other  gi'ain,  the 
caretul  and  stolid  nurse  and  guardian  of  youthfid  oxen, 
sheep,  and  pigs,  many  of  them  far  better  fed  and  housed 
than  his  own  children  t  All- penetrating  as  she  is,  one 
cannot  help  wondering  that  she  did  not  give  up  Englebourn 
altogether  as  a  hopeless  job. 

So  far  as  written  perio<lical  instruction  is  concerned  (with 
the  exception  of  the  Quarterly,  which  Dr.  Winter  had  taken 
in  from  its  commencement,  but  rarely  opened),  the  supply 
was  Umited  to  at  most  half  a  dozen  weekly  papers.  A 
Loudon  journal,  sound  in  Church  and  State  principles,  mOvSt 
respectable  but  not  otherwise  than  heavy,  came  every  Satur- 
day to  the  rectory.  The  Conservative  county  paper  was 
taken  in  at  the  Red  Lion  ;  and  L)avid  the  constable,  and 
the  blacksmith,  clubbed  together  to  purchase  the  Libf^ral 
paper,  by  help  of  which  they  uiauaged  to  wage  unequal  war 


504  TOM   BROWN   A1   OXFORD. 

with  the  knot  of  village  quiduuucs,  ■who  assemhled  almost 
nightly  at  the  bar  of  the  Tory  beast  above  referred  to — that 
king  of  beasts,  red  indeed  in  colour,  but  of  the  truest  blue 
in  political  principle.  Besides  these,  perhaps  three  or  four 
moie  papers  were  taken  by  the  farmers.  But,  scanty  as  the 
food  was,  it  was  quite  enough  for  the  mouths ;  indeed,  when 
the  papers  once  passed  out  of  the  parlours  they  had  for  the 
most  part  performed  their  mission.  Few  of  the  farm- 
servants,  male  or  female,  had  curiosity  or  scholarship  enough 
to  spell  through  the  dreary  columns. 

And  oral  teaching  was  not  much  more  plentiful,  as  how 
was  it  likely  to  be  1  Engleboum  was  situated  on  no  trunk 
road,  and  the  amount  of  intercourse  between  it  and  the  rest 
of  the  world  was  of  the  most  limited  kind.  The  rector  never 
left  home  ;  the  curate  at  rare  intervals.  Most  of  the  farmers 
went  to  market  once  a  week,  and  dined  at  their  ordinary,  dis- 
cussing county  politics  after  their  manner,  but  bringing  home 
little,  except  as  much  food  and  drink  as  they  could  cleverly 
carry.  The  carrier  went  to  and  from  Kewbury  once  a  week  ; 
but  he  was  a  silent  man,  chiefly  bent  on  collecting  and  selling 
butter.  The  postman,  who  was  deaf,  only  went  as  far  as  the 
next  village.  The  waggoners  drove  theh  masters'  produce  to 
market  from  time  to  time,  and  boozed  away  an  hour  or  two  in 
the  kitchen,  or  tap,  or  skittle-alley,  of  some  small  public-house 
in  the  nearest  town,  while  their  horses  rested.  With  the 
above  exceptions,  probably  not  one  of  the  villagers  strayed 
ten  miles  from  home,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  As  to 
visitors,  an  occasional  pedlar  or  small  commercial  traveller 
turned  up  about  once  a  quarter.  A  few  boys  and  girls,  more 
enterprising  than  their  fellows,  went  out  altogether  into  the 
world,  of  their  own  accord,  in  the  course  of  the  year ;  and  an 
occasional  burly  ploughboy,  or  carter's  boy,  was  entrapped 
into  taking  the  Queen's  shilling  by  some  subtle  recruiting 
sergeant.  But  few  of  these  were  seen  again,  except  at  long 
intervals.  The  yearly  village  feasts,  harvest  homes,  or  a  meet 
of  the  hounds  on  Englebourn  Common,  were  the  most  ex- 
citing events  which  in  an  ordinary  way  stirred  the  surface  of 
Englebourn  life ;  only  faintest  and  most  distant  murmurs  of 
the  din  and  strife  of  the  great  outer  world,  of  wars,  and 
rumours  of  wars,  the  fall  of  governments  and  the  throes  of 
nations,  reached  that  primitive,  out-of-the-way  httle  village. 

A  change  was  already  showing  itself  since  Miss  "Winter  had 
been  old  enough  to  look  after  the  schools.  Ihe  waters  were 
beginning  to  stir ;  and  by  this  time,  no  doubt,  the  parish 
boasts  a  regular  book-hawker  and  reading-room ;  but  at  that 
day  Englebourn  was  hke  one  of  those  small  ponds  you  may 


n{OM  INDIA   TO   E^rOLEBOURN.  505 

find  in  some  nook  of  a  hQl-side,  the  banks  grown  over  with 
uiulerwood,  to  M'hich  neither  man  nor  beast,  scarcely  tlie 
winds  of  heaven,  have  any  access.  When  you  have  found 
such  a  pond  you  may  create  a  great  excitement  amongst  the 
easy-going  newts  and  frogs  who  inhabit  it,  by  throwing  in  a 
pebble.  The  splash  in  itself  is  a  small  splash  enough,  and 
the  waves  which  circle  away  from  it  are  very  tiny  waves,  but 
they  move  over  the  whole  face  of  the  pond,  and  are  of  more 
interest  to  the  frogs  than  a  nor'-wester  in  the  Atlantic. 

So  the  approaching  return  of  Harry  Winburn,  and  the 
stor}'  of  his  doings  at  the  wars,  and  of  the  wonderful  things 
he  had  sent  home,  stirred  Englebourn  to  its  depths.  In  that 
small  corner  of  the  earth  the  sergeant  was  of  far  more  im- 
portance than  governor-general  and  commander-in  chief,  lu 
fact,  it  was  pnjliably  the  common  belief  that  he  was  somehow 
the  head  of  the  whole  business ;  and  India,  the  war,  and  ail 
that  hung  thereon,  were  looked  at  and  cared  for  only  as  they 
had  served  to  bring  him  out.  So  careless  were  the  good  folk 
about  everything  in  the  matter  except  their  own  hero,  and  so 
wonderful  wei'e  the  romances  which  soon  got  abroad  about 
him,  that  Miss  Winter,  tired  of  explaining  again  and  again  to 
the  old  women  without  the  slightest  eifect  on  the  parochial 
faith,  bethought  her  of  having  a  lecture  on  the  subject  of 
India  and  the  war  in  the  parish  schoolroom. 

Full  of  this  idea,  she  wrote  off  to  Tom,  who  was  the  medium 
of  communication  on  Indian  matters,  and  propounded  it  to 
him.  The  difficulty  was,  that  Mr.  Walker,  the  curate,  the 
only  person  competent  to  give  it,  was  going  away  directly  for 
a  three  weeks'  holiday,  having  arranged  with  two  neighbour- 
ing curates  to  take  his  Sunday  duty  for  him.  What  was  to 
be  done  1  Harry  might  be  back  any  day,  it  seemed  ;  so  there 
was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Could  Tom  come  himself,  and  help 
her  ? 

Tom  could  not ;  but  he  wrote  back  to  say  that  his  friend 
Hardy  was  just  getting  away  from  Oxford  for  the  long  vaca- 
tion, and  would  gladly  take  Mr.  Walker's  duty  for  the  tlu'ee 
weeks,  if  Dr.  Winter  approved,  on  his  way  home :  by  which 
arrangement  Englebourn  would  not  be  without  an  efficient 
parson  on  week-days,  and  she  would  have  the  man  of  all  others 
to  help  her  in  utilising  the  sergeant's  history  for  the  instruc- 
tion of  the  bucolic  mind.  The  arrangement,  moreover,  would 
be  ^particularly  happy,  because  Hardy  had  already  promisoil  to 
perform  the  marriage  ceremony,  which  Tom  and  she  had 
settled  would  take  place  at  the  earliest  possible  moment  after 
Iho  return  of  the  Indian  heroes. 

Di.  "Winter  was  very  glad  to  accept  tlie  offer  ;  and  so,  when 


f'06  rOM    BROWN    AT    OXFOKD. 

they  parted  at  Oxford,  Hardy  went  to  Engleboum,  where  we 
must  leave  him  for  the  present.  Tom  went  home — whence, 
in  a  few  days,  he  had  to  hurry  down  to  Southampton  to  meet 
the  two  Harrys.  He  was  much  shocked  at  first  to  see  the 
state  of  his  old  school-fellow.  East  looked  haggard  and  pale 
in  the  face,  notwithstanding  the  sea- voyage.  His  clothes  hung 
on  him  as  if  they  had  been  made  for  a  man  of  twice  his  size, 
and  he  walked  with  difficulty  by  the  help  of  a  large  stick. 
But  he  had  lost  none  of  his  indomitableness,  laughed  at  Tom's 
I(jng  face,  and  declared  that  he  felt  himself  getting  better  and 
stronger  every  day. 

"  K  you  had  only  seen  me  at  Calcutta,"  he  said,  "  you  would 
sing  a  different  song.     Eh,  Winburn  ? " 

Harry  Winburn  was  much  changed,  and  had  acquired  all 
the  composed  and  self-reliant  look  which  is  so  remarkable  in 
a  good  non-commissioned  officer.  Readiness  to  obey  and 
command  was  stamped  on  every  line  of  his  face ;  but  it 
required  all  his  powers  of  self-restraint  to  keep  within  bounds 
his  delight  at  getting  home  again.  His  wound  was  quite 
healed,  and  his  health  re-established  by  the  voyage ;  and, 
when  Tom  saw  how  wonderfully  liis  manners  and  carriage 
Avere  improved,  and  how  easily  his  uniform  sat  on  him,  he  felt 
quite  sure  that  all  would  be  soon  right  at  Englebourn, 
and  that  Katie  and  he  would  be  justified  in  their  prophecies 
and  preparations.  The  invalids  had  to  report  themselves  in 
London,  and  thither  the  three  proceeded  together.  When 
this  was  done,  Harry  Winburn  was  sent  off  at  once.  He  re- 
sisted at  first,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  stay  with  his  captain 
until  the  Captain  could  go  into  Berkshire  lumself.  But  he 
was  bj'^  this  time  too  much  accustomed  to  discipline  not  to 
obey  a  positive  order,  and  was  comforted  by  Tom's  assurance 
that  he  would  not  leave  East,  and  would  do  everything  for  him 
which  the  sergeant  had  been  accustomed  to  do. 

Three  days  later,  as  East  and  Tom  were  sitting  at  breakfast, 
a  short  note  came  from  Miss  Winter,  telling  of  ilarry's  arrival 
- — how  the  bells  were  set  ringing  to  welcome  him  ;  how  Mr. 
Hardy  had  preached  the  most  wonderful  sermon  on  his  story 
the  next  day  ;  above  all,  how  Patty  had  surrendered  at  dis- 
cietion,  and  the  banns  had  been  called  for  the  first  time.  So 
the  sooner  thej'  could  come  down  the  better — as  it  was  very 
important  that  no  time  should  be  lost,  lest  some  oi  the  old 
jealousies  and  quarrels  should  break  out  again.  Upon  reading 
and  considering  which  letter,  East  resolved  to  start  for  Engle- 
bourn at  once,  and  Tom  to  accompany  him. 

There  was  one  person  to  whom  Harry's  return  and  approach- 
ing wedding  was  a  subject  of  unmixed  joy  and  triumph,  and 


TOOM   I^■T)IA   TO   ENGLEBOURN.  507 

that  was  David  the  constable.  He  had  always  been  a  sincere 
friend  to  Harry,  and  had  stood  up  for  him  when  all  the  parit^i 
respectabilities  had  turned  against  him,  and  had  prophesied 
that  he  would  live  to  be  a  credit  to  the  place.  So  now  David 
felt  himself  an  inch  higher  as  he  saw  Harry  walking  about  in 
his  uniform  with  his  sweetheart,  the  admiration  of  all  Engle- 
bourn.  But,  besides  all  the  unselfish  pleasure  which  David 
enjoyed  on  his  young  friend's  account,  a  little  piece  of  private 
and  personal  gratification  came  to  him  on  his  own.  Ever 
since  Harry's  courtship  had  begun  David  had  felt  himself  in 
a  false  position  towards,  and  had  suifered  under,  old  Simon, 
the  rector's  gardener.  The  necessity  for  keeping  the  old  man 
in  good  humour  for  Harris  sake  had  always  been  present  to 
the  constable's  mind ;  and,  for  the  privilege  of  putting  in  a 
good  word  for  his  favourite  every  now  and  then,  he  had 
allowed  old  Simon  to  assume  an  air  of  superiority  over  him, 
and  to  trample  upon  him  and  dogmatize  to  him,  even  in  the 
matters  of  flowers  and  bees.  This  had  been  the  more  galling 
to  David  on  account  of  old  Simon's  intolerant  Toryism,  which 
the  constable's  soul  rebelled  against,  except  in  the  matter  of 
Church  music.  On  this  one  point  they  agreed,  but  even  hero 
Simon  managed  to  be  unpleasant.  He  would  lay  the  whole 
blame  of  the  changes  which  had  been  effected  upon  David, 
accusing  him  of  having  given  in  when  there  was  no  need.  Aa 
there  was  nothing  but  a  wall  between  the  Rectory  garden  and 
David's  httle  strip  of  ground,  in  which  he  spent  all  his  leism*e 
time  until  the  shades  of  evening  summoned  him  to  the  bar  of 
the  Red  Lion  for  his  daily  pint  and  pipe,  the  two  were  con- 
stantly within  hearing  of  one  another,  and  Simon,  in  times 
past,  had  seldom  neglected  an  opportunity  of  making  himself 
disagreeable  to  his  long-suffering  neighbour. 

But  now  David  was  a  free  man  again  ;  and  he  took  the 
earliest  occasion  of  making  the  change  in  his  manner  apparent 
to  Simon,  and  of  getting,  as  he  called  it,  "ujisides"  with  him. 
One  would  have  thought,  to  look  at  him,  that  the  old  gardener 
was  as  pachydermatous  as  a  rhinoceros ;  but  somehow  ho 
seemed  to  feel  that  things  had  changed  between  them,  and 
did  not  appreciate  an  interview  with  David  now  nearly  so 
much  as  of  old.  So  he  found  very  little  to  do  in  that  part  of 
tlie  garden  which  abutted  on  the  constable's  premises.  When 
he  could  not  help  working  there,  he  chose  the  times  at  which 
David  was  most  likely  to  be  engaged,  or  even  took  the  trouble 
to  ascertain  that  he  was  not  at  home. 

Early  on  Midsummer-day,  old  Simon  reared  his  ladder 
against  the  boundary  wall,  with  the  view  of  "  doctorin'  "  soiim 
of  the  fruit  trees,  relying  on  a  parish  meeting,  at  which  the 


5U8  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFOED. 

constable's  presence  was  required.  But  he  had  not  more  than 
hall'  finished  his  operations  before  David  returned  from  vestry, 
and,  catching  sight  of  the  top  of  the  ladder  and  Simon's  head 
above  the  wall,  laid  aside  all  other  business,  and  descended 
into  the  garden. 

Simon  kept  on  at  his  work,  only  replying  by  a  jerk  of  the 
head  and  one  of  his  grunts  to  his  neighbour's  salutation. 

David  took  his  coat  off,  and  his  pruning  knife  out,  and, 
establishing  himself  within  easy  shot  of  his  old  oppressor, 
opened  tire  at  once — 

"  Thou'st  gi'en  thy  consent  then  ?  " 

"'Tis  no  odds,  consent  or  none — her's  old  enough  to  hev 
her  own  waay." 

"  But  thou'st  gi'en  thy  consent  ?  " 

"  Ees,  then,  if  thou  wUt  hev't,"  said  Simon,  surHly ;  "wut 
then?" 

"  So  I  heerd,"  said  David,  indiJging  in  an  audible  chuckle. 

"  What  bist  a  laughin'  at  1 " 

"  I  be  laughin'  to  think  how  folks  changes.  Do'st  mind 
the  hard  things  as  thou  hast  judged  and  said  o'  Harry  ?  Not 
as  ever  I  known  thy  judgment  to  be  o'  much  account,  'cept 
about  roots.  But  thou  saidst,  times  and  times,  as  a  would 
come  to  the  gallows." 

"  So  a  med  yet — so  a  med  yet,"  answered  Simon.  "  Not 
but  wnt  I  wishes  well  to  un,  and  bears  no  grudges ;  but 
others  as  hev  got  the  law  ov  un  medn't." 

"  'Tis  he  as  hev  got  grudges  to  bear.  He  don't  need  none 
o'  thy  forgiveness." 

"Pr'aps  a  medn't.  But  hev  'em  got  the  law  ov  un,  or 
hevn't  'em  1 " 

"  Wut  do'st  mean  :  got  the  law  ov  un  ?  " 

"  Thaay  warrants  as  ^vur  out  agon  un,  along  wi'  the  rest  as 
was  transpworted  auver  Farmer  Tester's  job." 

"  Oh,  heVe  got  no  call  to  be  afeard  o'  thaay  now.  Thou 
knovr'st  I  hears  how  'tis  laid  down  at  Sessions  and  'Sizes, 
wher'  I've  a  been  this  twenty  year." 

"  Like  enuff.  Only,  wut's  to  hinder  thaay  tryin'  ov  un,  if 
thaay  be  a  minded  to  't  ?     That's  w^t  I  wants  to  know." 

"'Tis  wut  the  counsellors  calls  the  Statut  o'  Lamentations," 
said  the  constable,  proudly. 

"  Wutever's  Lamentations  got  to  do  wi't  1 " 

"  A  gurt  deal,  I  tell  'ee.  What  do'st  thou  know  o'  Lamen- 
tations 'I " 

"Lamentations  cums  afore  Ezekiel  in  the  Bible." 

"  That  ain't  no  kin  to  the  Statut  o'  Lamentations.  But 
there's  summut  like  to't  in   the  Bible,"  said  the  constahle, 


FROM   INDIA   TO   ENGLEBOURN.  509 

stopping  his  work  to  consider  a  moment.  "  Do'st  mind  the 
year  when  the  land  wur  all  to  be  guv  back  to  thaay  as  owned 
it  fust,  and  debts  wur  to  be  wiped  out  1 " 

"  Ees,  I  minds  sunimut  o'  that." 

"  Well,  this  here  statut  says,  if  so  be  as  a  man  hev  bin  to 
the  wars,  and  sarved  his  country  like,  as  notliin'  shan't  be 
reckoned  agen  he,  let  alone  murder.  Nothin'  can't  do  away 
wi'  murder." 

"  No,  nor  oughtn't.  Hows'mdever,  you  seems  clear  about 
the  law  on't.     There's  Miss  a  calliu'." 

And  old  Simon's  head  disappeared  as  he  descended  the 
ladder  to  answer  the  summons  of  liis  young  mistress,  not 
displeased  at  having  his  fears  as  to  the  safety  of  his  future 
son-in-law  set  at  rest  by  so  eminent  a  legal  authority  as  the 
constable.  Fortunately  for  Harry,  the  constable's  law  was 
not  destined  to  be  tried.  Young  Wurley  was  away  in  London. 
Old  Tester  was  bedridden  with  an  accumulation  of  diseases 
brought  on  by  his  bad  life.  His  illness  made  him  more 
violent  and  tyrannical  than  ever ;  but  he  could  do  little  harm 
out  of  his  own  room,  for  no  one  ever  went  to  see  him,  and  the 
wretched  farm-servant  who  attended  him  was  much  too  fright- 
ened to  tell  him  anything  of  what  was  going  on  in  the  parish. 
There  was  no  one  else  to  revive  proceedings  against  Harry. 

David  pottered  on  at  his  bees  and  his  flowers  till  old  Simon 
returned,  and  ascended  his  ladder  again. 

"  You  be  ther'  still,  be  'ee  1 "  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  saw 
David. 

"  Ees.     Any  news  ? " 

"  Ah,  news  enuff.  He  as  wur  Harry's  captain  and  young 
Mr.  Brown  be  comin'  down  to-morrow,  and  hev  tuk  all  the 
Red  Lion  to  theirselves.  And  thaay  beant  content  to  wait 
for  banns — not  thaay — and  so  ther's  to  be  a  license  got  for 
Saturday.     'Taint  scarce  decent,  that  'taint." 

"  'Tis  best  to  get  drough  wi't,"  said  the  constable. 

''Then  nothin'll  sarve  'em  but  the  church  must  be  hung 
wi'  flowers,  and  wher'  be  thaay  to  cum  from  without  strijjpin' 
and  starvin'  ov  my  beds  1  'Tis  shameful  to  see  how  folks 
acts  wi'  flowers  now-a-days,  a  cuttin'  on  'em  and  puttiu'  on 
'em  about,  as  prodigal  as  though  thaay  growed  o'  their- 
selves." 

"  So  'tis  shameful,"  said  David,  whose  S3'^mpalhies  for 
flowers  were  all  with  Simon.  "  I  heers  tell  as  young  Squire 
"Wurley  hevs  'em  on  table  at  dinner-time  instead  o'  the 
wittles." 

"  Do'ee  thoiigh  !  I  calls  it  reg'lar  papistry,  and  so  I  tells 
Miss  ;  but  her  only  laughs." 


510  TOM  BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

Tlie  constable  shook  his  head  solemnly  as  he  replied, 
"  Her've  been  led  away  wi'  such  doin's  ever  sence  Mr. 
Walker  cum,  and  took  to  organ-playin'  and  chantin'." 

"  And  he  ain't  no  sich  gurt  things  in  the  pulpit  neether, 
ain't  Mr.  Walker,"  chimed  in  Simon  (the  two  had  not  been  so 
in  harmony  for  years).  "  I  reckon  as  he  ain't  nothin'  to  speak 
ov  alongside  o'  this  here  new  un  as  hev  tuk  his  place.  He've 
a  got  a  good  deal  o'  move  in  un,  he  hev." 

"  Ah,  so  a  hev.  A  wunnerful  sight  o'  things  a  telled  us 
f  other  night  about  the  Indians  and  the  wars." 

"  Ah !  talking  cums  as  nat'ral  to  he  as  buttermilk  to  a 
litterin'  sow." 

"  Thou  shoulds't  a  heerd  un,  though,  about  the  battles.  I 
can't  mind  the  neames  on  'em — let  me  see — " 

"  I  dwun't  vally  the  neumes,"  interrupted  Simon.  "  Thaay 
makes  a  deal  o'  fuss  auver't  aal,  but  I  dwun't  tek  no  account 
on't.  'Tain't  like  the  owld  wars  and  fightin'  o'  the  French, 
this  here  fightin'  wi'  blackamoors,  let  'em  talk  as  thaay 
wool." 

"  No  more  'tain't.  But  'twur  a  'mazin'  fine  talk  as  he  gi'n 
us.     Hev'ee  seed  ought  'twixt  he  and  young  missus  ? " 

"  Nothin'  out  o'  th'  common.  I  got  plenty  to  do  without 
lookin'  arter  the  women,  and  'tain't  no  bisness  o'  mine,  nor  o' 
thine  neether." 

David  was  preparing  a  stout  rejoinder  to  this  rebuke  of 
the  old  retainer  of  the  Winter  family  on  his  curiosity,  but 
was  summoned  by  his  wife  to  the  house  to  attend  a  customer  ; 
and  by  the  time  he  could  get  out  again  Simon  had  dis- 
appeared. 

The  next  day  East  and  Tom  arrived,  and  took  possession 
of  the  Red  Lion  ;  and  Englebourn  was  soon  in  a  ferment  of 
preparation  for  the  wedding.  East  was  not  the  man  to  do 
things  by  halves ;  and,  seconded  as  he  was  by  Miss  Winter 
and  Hardy  and  Tom,  had  soon  made  arrangements  for  all 
sorts  of  merrymaking.  The  school-children  were  to  have  a 
whole  holiday,  and,  after  scattering  flowers  at  church  and 
marching  in  the  bridal  procession,  were  to  be  entertained  in 
a  tent  pitched  in  the  home  paddock  of  the  Rectory,  and  to  have 
an  afternoon  of  games  and  prizes,  and  tea  and  cake.  The 
bell-ringers,  Harry's  old  comrades,  were  to  have  five  shillings 
apiece,  and  a  cricket  match,  and  a  dinner  afterwards  at  the 
second  public-house,  to  which  any  other  of  his  old  friends 
whom  Harry  chose  to  ask  were  to  be  also  invited.  The  old 
men  and  women  were  to  be  fed  in  the  village  school-room  ; 
and  East  and  Tom  were  to  entertain  a  select  party  of  the 
farmers  and  tradesmen  at  the  Ked  Lion,  the  tap  of  whicl 


THE  WEDDING-DAY.  511 

hostelry  was  to  be  thrown  open  to  all  comers  at  the  Captain's 
expense.  It  was  not  without  considerable  demur  on  the  part 
of  Miss  Winter  that  some  of  these  indiscriminate  festivities 
were  allowed  to  pass.  But  after  consiilting  with  Hardy 
she  relented,  on  condition  that  the  issue  of  beer  at  the  two 
public-houses  should  be  put  under  the  control  of  David  the 
constable,  who,  on  his  part,  promised  that  law  and  order  should 
be  well  represented  and  maintained  on  the  occasion.  "  Artei 
all,  Miss,  you  sees,  'tis  only  for  once  in  a  waay,"  he  said ; 
"and  'twill  make  'em  remember  aal  as  hev  bin  said  to  'em 
about  the  Indians  and  the  rest  on't."  So  the  Captain  and  his 
abettors,  having  gained  the  constable  as  an  ally,  prevailed  ; 
and  Engleboum,  much  wondering  at  itself,  made  ready  for  a 
general  holiday. 


CHAPTER   XLYII. 

THE   WEDDING-DAT. 

One — more — poor — man — un-dono — 
One — more — poor — man — un-done. 

The  belfry-tower  rocked  and  reeled,  as  that  peal  rang  out, 
now  merry,  now  scornful,  now  plaintive,  from  those  narrow 
belfry  windows,  into  the  bosom  of  the  soft  south-west  wind 
which  was  playing  round  the  old  grey  tower  of  Englebourn 
church.  And  the  wind  caught  the  peal  and  played  with  it, 
and  bore  it  away  over  Rectory  and  village  street,  and  many  a 
homestead,  and  gently  waving  field  of  ripening  corn,  and  rich 
pasture  and  water-meadow,  and  tall  whispering  woods  of  the 
Grange,  and  roUed  it  against  the  hOl-side,  and  up  the  slope 
past  the  clump  of  firs  on  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  till  it  died  away 
on  the  wild  stretches  of  common  beyond. 

The  ringers  bent  lustily  to  their  work.  There  had  been  no 
such  ringing  in  Englebourn  since  the  end  of  the  great  war. 
Not  content  with  the  usual  peal  out  of  church,  they  came 
back  again  and  again  in  the  afternoon,  full  of  the  good  cheer 
which  had  been  provided  for  them  ;  and  again  and  again  the 
wedding  peal  rang  out  from  the  belfry  in  honour  of  their  old 
comrade — 

One — more — ^poor — man — un-done — 

One — more — poor — man — un  -done. 

Such  was  the  ungallant  speech  which  for  many  generations 
had  been  attributed  to  the  Engleboum  wedding-beUs  ;  and 
when  you  had  once  caught  the  words—  -a?  vou  would  be  sure 
to  do  from  some  wide-mouthed,  grinning  boy,  lounging  over 


512  TOM   BROWN    AT   OXFOP.P. 

tlie  churchyard  rails  to  see  the  wedding  pafcs — it  would  bt- 
impossible  to  persuade  yourself  that  they  did,  in  fact,  say 
anything  else.  Somehow,  Harry  "VVinburn  boro  his  undoing 
in  the  most  heroic  manner,  and  did  his  duty  tliroughout  the 
trying  day  as  a  non-commissioned  officer  and  bridegroom 
should.  The  only  part  of  the  performance  arranged  by  his 
captain  which  he  fairly  resisted,  was  the  proposed  departure 
of  himself  and  Patty  to  the  station  in  the  solitary  post-chaise 
of  Englebourn — a  real  old  yellow — with  a  pair  of  horses. 
East,  after  hearing  the  sergeant's  pleading  on  the  subject  of 
vehicles,  at  last  allowed  them  to  driA'^e  off  in  a  tax-cart,  taking 
a  small  boy  with  them  behind,  to  bring  it  back. 

As  for  the  festivities,  they  went  off  without  a  hitch,  as  such 
affairs  will,  where  the  leaders  of  the  revels  have  their  hearts 
in  them.  The  children  had  all  played,  and  romped,  and 
eaten,  and  drunk  themselves  into  a  state  of  torpor  by  an 
early  hour  of  the  evening.  The  farmers'  dinner  was  a  de- 
cided success.  East  proposed  the  health  of  the  bride  and 
bridegroom,  and  was  followed  by  Farmer  Grove  and  the  con- 
stable. David  turned  out  in  a  new  blue  swallow-tailed  coat, 
with  metal  buttons,  of  his  own  fabulous  cut,  in  honour  of  the 
occasion.  He  and  the  farmer  spoke  like  the  leader  of  the 
Government  and  the  Opposition  in  the  House  of  Commons 
on  an  address  to  the  Crown.  There  was  not  a  pin  to  choose 
between  their  speeches,  and  a  stranger  hearing  them  would 
naturally  have  concluded  that  Harry  had  never  been  anything 
but  the  model  boy  and  young  man  of  the  parish.  Fortunately, 
the  oratorical  powers  of  Englebourn  ended  here ;  and  East, 
and  the  majority  of  his  guests,  adjourned  to  the  green,  where 
the  cricket  was  in  progress.  Each  game  lasted  a  very  short 
time  only,  as  the  youth  of  Englebourn  were  not  experts  in 
the  noble  science,  and  lost  their  wickets  one  after  another  so 
fast,  that  Tom  and  Hardy  had  time  to  play  out  two  matches 
with  them,  and  then  to  retire  on  their  laurels,  while  the  after- 
noon was  yet  young. 

The  old  folk  in  the  village  school-room  enjoyed  their  beef 
and  pudding,  under  the  special  superintendence  of  Miss 
"Winter,  and  then  toddled  to  their  homes,  and  sat  about  in 
the  warmest  nooks  they  could  find,  mumbling  of  old  times, 
and  the  doings  at  Dr.  Winter's  wedding. 

David  devoted  himself  to  superintending  the  issue  of  beer, 
swelling  with  importance,  but  so  full  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  from  the  great  event  of  the  day  that  nobody  minded 
his  little  ai^-s.  He  did  his  duty  so  satisfactorily  that,  with 
the  exception  of  one  or  two  regular  confirmed  soakers,  who 
stuck  steadily  to  the  tap  of  the  Red  Lion  and  there  managed 


THE    WEDDING-DAY,  51U 

piicccssfolly  to  fuddle  tlipmselves,  there  was  cotbing  like 
ilrunkenness.  In  short,  it  was  one  of  those  rare  days  when 
everything  goes  right,  and  eA'crybody  seems  to  be  inclined  to 
give  and  take,  and  to  make  allowances  for  their  neighbours. 
By  degrees  the  cricket  flagged,  and  most  of  the  men  went  off 
to  sit  over  their  pipes,  and  finish  the  evening  in  their  own 
■way.  The  boys  and  girls  took  to  playing  at  "  kissmg  in  the 
ring  ;"  and  the  children  who  had  not  abeady  gone  home  sat 
in  groups  watching  then. 

Miss  Winter  had  already  disappeared,  and  Tom,  Hardy, 
and  the  Captain  began  to  feel  that  they  might  consider  their 
I)art  finished.  They  strolled  together  off  the  green  towards 
Hardy's  lodgings,  the  Eed  Lion  being  still  in  the  possession 
of  East's  guests. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  thing  it  aU  went  off?"  asked  he. 

"  Nothing  could  have  been  better,"  said  Hardy  ;  and  they 
all  seem  so  inclined  to  be  reasonable  that  I  don't  think  we 
shall  even  have  a  roaring  song  along  the  street  to-night  when 
the  Red  Lion  shuts  up." 

"  And  you  are  satisfied,  Tom  ? " 

"  I  should  think  so.  I  have  been  hoping  for  this  day  any 
time  this  four  years,  and  now  it  has  come,  and  gone  off  well, 
too,  thanks  to  you,  Harry." 

"  Thanks  to  me  1  Very  good  ;  I  am  open  to  any  amount,  of 
gratitude." 

"  I  think  you  have  every  reason  to  be  satisfi.ed  with  your 
second  day's  work  at  Englebourn,  at  any  rate." 

"  So  I  am.  I  only  hope  it  may  turn  out  as  well  as  the 
first." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  about  that." 

"  I  don't  know.    I  rather  believe  in  the  rule  of  contraries." 

"  How  do  you  mean  1 " 

"  Why,  when  you  inveigled  me  over  from  Oxford,  and  we 
carried  off  the  sergeant  from  the  authorities,  and  defeated  the 
yeomanry  in  that  tremendous  thunder-storm,  I  thought  we 
M  ere  a  couple  of  idiots,  and  deserved  a  week  each  in  the  lock- 
up for  our  pains.  That  business  turned  out  well.  This  time 
we  have  started  with  flying  colours  and  bells  ringing,  and 
so " 

"  This  business  will  turn  oiit  better.     Wliy  nof?" 

"Then  let  us  manage  a  third  day's  work  in  these  parts  as 
soon  as  possible.  I  should  like  to  get  to  the  third  degree  of 
comparison,  and  perhaps  the  superlative  will  turn  up  trumps 
for  me  somehow.  Are  there  many  more  young  women  in  the 
place  as  pretty  as  Mrs.  Winbum )  This  marrying  complaint 
is  very  catching,  I  find." 

L  L 


514  TOM    BKOWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"  There's  my  cousin  Katie,"  said  Tom,  looking  stealthily  at 
Hardy ;  "  I  won't  allow  that  there's  any  face  in  the  country- 
side to  match,  hers.     What  do  you  say,  Jack  ?" 

Hardy  was  confused  by  this  sudden  appeal. 

"  I  haven't  been  long  enough  here  to  judge,"  he  said.  "I 
have  always  thought  Miss  Winter  very  beautiful  I  see  it  is 
nearly  seven  o'clock,  and  I  have  a  call  or  two  to  make  in  the 
village.  I  should  think  you  ought  to  get  some  rest  after  this 
tiring  day,  Captain  East  1 " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Tom  1 " 

"  Well,  I  was  thinking  of  just  throwing  a  fly  over  the  mill 
tail.     There's  such  a  fine  head  of  water  on." 

"Isn't  it  too  bright?" 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is  a  little  :  marrying  weather  and  fishing 
weather  don't  agree.  Only  what  else  is  there  to  do  ?  But  if 
you  are  tired,"  he  added,  looking  at  East,  "  I  don't  care  a 
straw  about  it.     I  shall  stay  with  you." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  shall  hobble  down  with  you,  and  lie 
on  the  bank  and  smoke  a  cheroot." 

"  No,  you  shan't  walk,  at  any  rate.  I  can  borrow  the 
constable's  pony,  old  Nibble,  the  quietest  beast  in  the  world. 
He'll  stand  for  a  week  if  we  like,  while  I  fish  and  you  lie  and 
look  on.     I'll  be  off,  and  bring  him  round  in  two  minutes." 

"  Then  we  shall  meet  for  a  clumsy  tea  at  nine  at  my  lodg- 
ings," said  Hardy,  as  he  went  off  to  his  pastoral  duties. 

Tom  and  East,  in  due  time,  found  themselves  by  the  side 
of  the  stream.  There  was  only  a  small  piece  of  fishable 
water  in  Engleboum.  The  fine  stream,  which,  a  mile  or  so 
below,  in  the  Grange  grounds,  might  be  called  a  river,  came 
into  respectable  existence  only  about  two  hundred  yards  above 
Engleboum  Mill  Here  two  little  chalk  brooks  met,  and 
former  millers  had  judiciously  deepened  the  channel,  and 
dammed  the  united  waters  back  so  as  to  get  a  respectable 
reseiwoir.  Above  the  junction  the  little  weedy,  bright, 
creeping  brooks  afforded  good  sport  for  small  truants  groppling 
about  with  their  hands,  or  bobbing  with  lobworms  under  the 
hollow  banks,  but  were  not  available  for  the  scientific  angler, 
llie  parish  ended  at  the  fence  next  below  the  mill  garden,  on 
the  other  side  of  which  the  land  was  part  of  the  Grange  estate. 
So  there  was  just  the  piece  of  still  water  above  the  mill,  and 
the  one  field  below  it,  over  which  Tom  had  leave.  On  ordi- 
nary occasions  this  would  have  been  enough,  with  careful 
fishing,  to  last  him  till  dark ;  but  his  nerves  were  probably 
somewhat  excited  by  the  events  of  the  day,  and  East  sat  near 
and  kept  talking ;  so  he  got  over  his  water  faster  than  usual 
At  any  rate,  he  had  arrived  for  the  second  time  at  the  envioia 


TTFE   WEDDING-DAY.  515 

fence  before  the  sun  was  down.  The  fish  were  wonrlrous  w.iiy 
in  the  miller's  bit  of  Avater — as  might  be  expcrtcd,  for  they 
led  a  dog  of  a  life  there,  between  the  miller  and  his  men,  and 
their  nets,  and  baits  of  all  kinds  always  set.  So  Tom  thought 
himself  lucky  to  get  a  couple  of  decent  fish,  the  only  ones 
that  were  moving  within  his  liberty ;  but  he  could  not  help 
looking  with  covetous  eyes  on  the  fine  stretch  of  water  below, 
aU  dimpling  with  rises. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  over  and  fish  below  ?"  said  East,  from 
his  seat  on  the  bank  ;  "  don't  mind  me.  I  can  watch  you  ; 
besides,  lying  on  the  tui'f  on  such  an  evening  is  luxury 
enough  by  itself." 

"  I  can't  go.  Both  sides  below  belong  to  that  fellow 
Wurley." 

"The  sergeant's  amiable  landlord  and  prosecutor?" 

"Yes  ;  and  the  yeoman  with  whom  you  exchanged  shots 
on  the  common." 

"  Hang  it,  Tom,  just  jump  over  and  catch  a  brace  of  his 
trout.     Look  how  they  are  rising." 

"  No,  I  don't  know.  I  never  was  very  particular  about 
poaching,  but  somehow  I  shouldn't  like  to  do  it  on  his  land. 
I  don't  like  him  well  euoiigh." 

"You're  right,  T  believe.  But,  just  look  there.  There's  a 
whopper  rising  not  more  than  ten  yards  below  the  rail.  You 
might  reach  him,  I  think,  without  tresspasing,  from  where 
you  stand." 

"  Shall  I  have  a  shy  at  hun  V 

"  Yes ;  it  can't  be  poaching  if  you  don't  go  on  his 
grounds." 

Tom  could  not  resist  the  temptation,  and  threw  over  the 
rails,  which  crossed  the  stream  from  hedge  to  hedge  to  mark 
the  boundaries  of  the  parish,  until  he  got  well  over  the  place 
where  the  fish  was  risiug. 

"  There,  that  was  at  your  fly,"  said  East,  hobbling  up  in 
great  excitement. 

"  All  right,  I  shall  have  him  directly.  Tlrere  he  is.  Hullo  ! 
Harry,  I  say  !  Splash  with  your  stick.  Drive  the  brute  back. 
Bad  luck  to  him.      Look  at  that !" 

The  fish  when  hooked  had  come  straight  up  stream  towards 
his  captor,  and  notwithstanding  East's  attempts  to  frighten 
him  back,  had  rushed  in  under  the  before-mentioned  rails, 
which  were  adorned  with  jagged  nails,  to  make  crossing  on 
them  unpleasant  for  the  Englebourn  boys.  Against  one  of 
these  Tom's  line  severed,  and  the  waters  closed  over  two 
beauteous  flies,  and  some  six  feet  of  lovely  taper  gut. 

East  laughed  loud  and  merrily ;  and  Tom,  crestfaJleu  as  he 
L  l2 


516  TOM    BTIOWN    AT   OXFOED. 

was,  was  dcliglited  to  hear  the  old  ring  coming  back  into  his 
friend's  voice 

"  Harry,  old  fellow,  you're  picking  up  abeady  in  this  glo- 
rious air." 

"  Of  course  I  am.  Two  or  three  more  weddings  and  fish- 
ings will  set  me  up  altogether.  How  could  you  be  so  groen 
as  to  throw  over  those  rails  1  It's  a  proper  lesson  to  you,  Torn, 
for  poaching." 

"  Well,  that's  cool.  Didn't  I  tlirow  down  stream  to  please 
you?" 

"  You  ought  to  have  resisted  temptation.  But,  I  say,  what 
are  you  at  1 " 

"  Putting  on  another  cast,  of  course." 
"  Why,  you're  not  going  on  to  Wurley's  land  1 " 
"  No  ;  I  suppose  not.     I  must  try  the  miU  tail  again." 
"  It's  no  good.    You've  tried  it  over  twice,  and  I'm  getting 
bored." 

"  Well,  what  shall  we  do  then  1" 

"  I've  a  mind  to  get  up  to  the  hill  there  to  see  the  sun  set 
— what's  its  name  1 — where  I  waited  with  the  cavalry  that 
night,  you  know." 

"  Oh  !  the  Hawk's  Lynch.  Come  along,  then  ;  I'm  your 
man." 

So  Tom  put  up  his  rod,  and  caught  the  old  pony,  and  the 
two  ft'iends  were  soon  on  their  way  towards  the  common, 
through  lanes  at  the  back  of  the  village. 

The  wind  had  sunk  to  sleep  as  the  shadows  lengthened. 
There  was  no  sound  abroad  except  that  of  Nibble's  hoofs  on 
the  tm'f, — not  even  the  hum  of  insects ;  for  the  few  perse- 
vering gnats,  who  were  still  dancing  about  in  the  slanting 
glints  of  sunshine  that  struck  here  and  there  across  the  lanes, 
had  left  off  humming.  Nothing  living  met  them,  except  an 
occasional  stag-beetle,  steering  clumsily  down  the  lane,  and 
seeming,  like  a  heavy  coaster,  to  have  as  much  to  do  as  he 
could  fairly  manage  in  keeping  clear  of  them.  They  walked 
on  in  silence  for  some  time,  which  was  broken  at  last  by  East. 
"  I  haven't  had  time  to  teU  you  about  my  future  pros- 
pects." 

"  How  do  you  mean  1     Has  anything  happened  ?  " 
"  Yes.     I  got  a  letter  two  days  ago  from  New  Zealand, 
■where  I  find  I  am  a  considerable  landowner.    A  cousin  of  mine 
:tas  died  out  there  and  left  me  his  property." 

"  Well,  you're  not  going  to  leave  England,  surely  1 " 
"  Yes,  I  am.     The  doctors  say  the  voyage  will  do  me  good, 
and  the  climate  is  just  the  one  to  suit  me.     What's  the  good 
-£  my  staying  here?      I  shan't  be  fit  for  service  again  for 


THE   WEDDING-DAY.  517 

years.  I  i?hall  go  ou  half- pay,  and  become  an  enterprising 
agriculturist  at  the  Antipodes.  I  have  spoken  to  the  ser- 
geant, and  arranged  that  he  and  his  wife  shall  go  with  me  ; 
so,  as  soon  as  I  can  get  his  discharge,  and  he  has  done 
honeymooning,  we  shall  start.  I  wish  you  would  come  with 
us." 

Tom  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears ;  but  soon  found  that 
East  was  in  earnest,  and  had  an  answer  to  all  his  remon- 
strances. Indeed,  he  had  very  little  to  say  against  the  plan, 
for  it  jumped  with  his  own  humour ;  and  he  could  not  help 
admitting  that,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was  a  wise  one, 
and  that,  with  Harry  "Winburn  for  his  head  man,  East 
couldn't  do  better  than  carry  it  out. 

"  I  knew  you  would  soon  come  round  to  it,"  said  the 
captain  ;  "  what  could  I  do  dawdling  about  at  home,  with  just 
enough  money  to  keep  me  and  get  me  into  mischief?  There 
I  shall  have  a  position  and  an  object ;  and  one  may  be  of 
some  use,  and  make  one's  mark  in  a  new  country.  And  we'll 
get  a  snug  berth  ready  for  you  by  the  time  you're  starved  out 
of  the  old  country.  England  isn't  the  place  for  poor  men 
with  any  go  in  them." 

"  I  believe  you're  right,  Harry,"  said  Tom,  mournfully. 

"  I  know  I  am.  And  in  a  few  years,  when  we've  made 
our  fortunes,  we'll  come  back  and  have  a  look  at  the  old 
country,  and  perhaps  buy  up  half  Englebourn,  and  lay  our 
bones  in  the  old  churchyard." 

"  And  if  we  don't  make  our  fortunes  ? " 

"  Then  we'll  stay  out  there." 

"  Well,  if  1  were  my  OAvn  master  I  think  I  should  make 
one  with  you.  But  I  coidd  never  leave  my  father  and  mother, 
or — or — " 

"  Oh,  I  understand.  Of  course,  if  matters  go  all  right  in 
that  quarter,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  But,  from  what 
you  have  told  me,  I  thought  you  might  be  glad  of  a  regular 
break  in  your  life,  a  new  start  in  a  new  world." 

"  Very  likely  I  may.  I  should  have  said  so  myself  this 
morning.  But  somehow  I  feel  to-night  more  hopeful  than  I 
have  for  years." 

"  Those  wedding  chimes  are  running  in  your  head." 

"  Yes  ;  and  they  have  lifted  a  load  off  my  heart  too.  Four 
years  ago  I  was  very  near  doing  the  greatest  wrong  a  man 
can  do  to  that  girl  who  was  married  to-day,  and  to  that  fine 
fellow  her  husband,  who  was  the  first  friend  I  ever  had. 
Ever  since  then  I  have  been  doing  my  best  to  set  matters 
straight,  and  hav3  often  made  them  crookeder.  But  to-day 
they  are  all  straight,  thank  God,  and  I  feel  as  if  a  chain  were 


518  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

broken  from  off  my  neck.     All  has  come  right  for  them,  anj 
perhaps  my  own  turn  \\dll  come  before  long." 

"To  be  sure  it  will.  I  must  be  introduced  to  a  certain 
young  lady  before  we  start.  I  shall  tell  her  that  I  don't 
mean  to  give  up  hopes  of  seeing  her  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world." 

"  Well,  here  we  are  on  the  common.  What  a  glorious 
sunset !  Come,  stir  up,  Nibble.  We  shall  be  on  the  Lynch 
just  in  time  to  see  him  dip  if  we  push  on." 

Nibble,  that  ancient  pony,  finding  that  there  was  no  help 
for  it,  scrambled  up  the  greater  part  of  the  ascent  successfully. 
P)Ut  his  wheezings  and  roarings  during  the  operation  excited 
East's  pity.  So  he  dismounted  when  they  came  to  the  foot 
of  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  and,  tying  Nibble's  bridle  to  a  furze- 
bush — a  most  unnecessary  precaution — set  to  work  to  scale 
the  last  and  steepest  bit  of  the  ascent  with  the  help  of  his  stick 
and  Tom's  strong  arm. 

They  paused  every  ten  paces  or  so  to  rest  and  look  at  the 
sunset.  The  broad  vale  below  lay  in  purple  shadow ;  the 
soft  flocks  of  little  clouds  high  up  over  their  heads,  and 
stretching  away  to  the  eastern  horizon,  floated  in  a  sea  of 
rosy  light ;  and  the  stems  of  the  Scotch  firs  stood  out  like 
columns  of  ruddy  flame. 

"  Why,  this  beats  India,"  said  Enst,  putting  up  his  hand  to 
shade  his  eyes,  which  were  fairly  dazzled  by  the  blaze.  "  What 
a  contrast  to  the  last  time  I  was  up  here !  Do  you  remember 
that  awful  black-blue  sky  1 " 

"  Don't  I  ?     Like  a  night-mare.     Hullo  !  who's  here  ?" 

"  Yfhj,  if  it  isn't  the  parson  and  Miss  Winter  ! "  said  East, 
smiling. 

True  enough,  there  they  were,  standing  together  on  the 
very  verge  of  the  mound,  beyond  the  firs,  some  ten  yards  in 
front  of  the  last  comers,  looking  out  into  the  sunset. 

"  I  say,  Tom,  another  good  omen,"  whispered  East ;  "  hadn't 
we  better  beat  a  retreat  ? " 

Before  Tom  could  answer,  or  make  up  his  mind  what  to  do, 
Hardy  turned  his  head  and  cauglit  sight  of  them,  and  then 
Katie  turned  too,  blushing  like  the  little  clouds  overhead. 
It  was  an  embarrassing  moment.  Tom  stammered  out  that 
they  had  come  up  quite  by  chance,  and  then  set  to  work,  well 
seconded  by  East,  to  look  desperately  unconscious,  and  to 
expatiate  on  the  beauties  of  the  view.  The  light  began  to  fade, 
and  the  little  clouds  to  change  again  from  soft  pink  to  grey, 
and  the  evening  star  shone  out  clear  as  they  turned  to 
descend  the  hill,  when  the  Englebourn  clock  chimed  nine. 

Katie  attached  herself  to  Tom,  while  Hardy  helped  the 


THE    SVEDDING-DAY.  519 

Captain  down  the  steep  pitch,  and  on.  to  the  back  of  Nibble. 
I'hey  went  a  little  ahead  Tom  was  longing  to  speak  to  his 
cousin,  but  could  not  tell  how  to  begin.  At  last  Katie  broke 
silence : 

"  I  am  so  vexed  that  this  should  have  happened  !  " 

"  Are  you,  dear  ?  So  am  not  I,"  he  said,  pressing  her  arm 
to  his  side. 

"  But  I  mean,  it  seems  so  forward — as  if  I  had  met  Mr. 
Haixly  here  on  purpose.  What  will  your  friend  think  of 
me?" 

"  He  will  think  no  evil" 

"  But  indeed,  Tom,  do  tell  him,  pray.  It  was  quite  an 
accident.  You  know  how  I  and  Mary  used  to  go  up  the 
Hawk's  Lynch  whenever  we  could,  on  fine  evenings. 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  know  it  well." 

"  And  I  thought  of  you  both  so  much  to-day,  that  I 
couldn't  help  coming  up  here." 

"  And  you  found  Hardy  1  I  don't  wonder.  I  should 
come  up  to  see  the  sun  set  every  night,  if  I  lived  at  Engle- 
bourn." 

"  !No.  He  came  up  some  time  after  me.  Straight  up  the 
hill.  I  did  not  see  him  till  he  was  quite  close.  I  could  not 
run  away  then.  Indeed,  it  was  not  five  minutes  before  you 
came." 

"  Five  minutes  are  as  good  as  a  year  sometimes." 

"  And  you  will  tell  your  friend,  Tom,  how  it  happened  1 " 

"  Indeed  I  will,  Katie.  May  I  not  tell  him  something 
more  ? " 

He  looked  round  for  an  answer,  and  there  was  just  light 
enough  to  read  it  in  her  eye. 

"  My  debt  is  deepening  to  the  Hawk's  Lynch,"  he  said, 
as  they  walked  on  through  the  twiliglit.  "  Blessed  five 
minutes  !  ^^'hatever  else  they  may  take  with  them,  they  will 
carry  my  thanks  for  ever.  Look  how  clear  and  steaily  the 
light  of  that  star  is,  just  over  the  church  tower.  I  wonder 
whether  Mary  is  at  a  great  hot  dinner.  Shall  you  write  to 
her  soon  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.     To-night." 

•^You  may  tell  her  that  there  is  no  better  Englishman 
walking  the  earth  than  my  friend,  John  Hardy.  Hero  we 
are  at  his  lodgings.  East  and  I  are  going  to  tea  with  iiim. 
Wish  them  good  night,  and  I  wiU  see  you  home." 


520  TOM   BROWN   AT   OXFOKD. 

CHAPTEE  XLVIII. 

THE    BEGINNING    OF    THE    END. 

FnoM  the  Englobourn  festivities  Tom  and  East  returned  to 
London.  The  Captain  was  bent  on  starting  for  his  posses- 
sions in  the  South  Paciiic ;  and,  as  he  regained  strength, 
energized  over  all  his  pre2)arations,  and  went  about  in  cabs 
purchasing  agricultural  implements,  sometimes  by  the  light  of 
nature,  and  sometimes  under  the  guidance  of  Harry  Winburn. 
He  invested  also  in  something  of  a  library,  and  in  large  quan- 
tities of  saddlery.  In  short,  packages  of  all  kinds  began  to 
increase  and  multiply  upon  him.  Then  there  was  the  select- 
ing a  vessel,  and  all  the  negotiations  with  the  ship's  husband 
as  to  terms,  and  the  busineso  of  getting  introduced  to,  and 
conferring  with,  people  from  the  colony,  or  who  were  supposed 
to  know  something  about  it.  Altogether,  East  had  plenty  of 
work  on  his  hands ;  and  the  more  he  had  to  do,  the  better 
and  more  cheery  he  became. 

Tom,  on  the  contrary,  was  rather  lower  than  usual.  His 
half-formed  hopes  that  some  good  luck  was  going  to  happen 
to  him  after  Patty's  marriage,  were' beginning  to  grow  faint, 
and  the  contrast  of  his  fiiend's  definite  present  purpose  in  life 
with  his  own  uncertainty,  made  him  more  or  less  melancholy 
in  spite  of  all  his  efforts.  His  father  had  offered  him  a  tour 
abroad,  now  that  he  had  finished  with  Oxford,  urging  that  he 
seemed  to  want  a  change  to  freshen  him  up  before  buckling 
to  a  profession,  and  that  he  would  never,  in  all  likelihood, 
have  such  another  chance.  But  he  coiald  not  make  up  his 
mind  to  accept  the  offer.  The  attraction  to  London  was  too 
strong  for  him  ;  and,  though  he  saw  little  hope  of  anything 
happening  to  improve  his  prospects,  he  could  not  keep  away 
from  it.  He  spent  most  of  his  time  when  not  with  East,  in 
haunting  the  neighbourhood  of  Mr.  Porter's  house  in  Belgravia, 
and  the  places  where  he  was  hkely  to  catch  distant  glimpses 
of  Mary,  avoiduig  all  chance  of  actual  meeting  or  recognition, 
from  which  he  shrank  in  his  present  frame  of  mind. 

The  nearest  approach  to  the  flame  which  he  allowed  him- 
self was  a  renewal  of  his  old  friendship  with  Grey,  who  was 
stiU  working  on  in  his  Westminster  rookery.  He  had  become 
a  gi'cat  favourite  M-ith  Mrs.  Porter,  who  was  always  trying  to 
get  him  to  her  house  to  feed  him  properly,  and  was  much 
astonished,  and  sometimes  almost  provoked,  at  the  small 
success  of  her  hospitable  endeavours.  Grey  was  so  taken  up 
with  his  own  pursuits  that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  be  sur 


TIIE   BEGINNING   OF   THE   END,  521 

prised  tliat  he  uever  met  Tom  at  tlie  house  of  his  relations. 
He  was  innocent  of  all  knowledge  or  suspicion  of  the  real 
state  of  things,  so  that  Tom  could  talk  to  him  with  perfect 
freedom  about  his  uncle's  household,  picking  up  all  such 
scraps  of  information  as  Grey  possessed  without  compromising 
himself  or  feeling  shy. 

Thus  the  two  old  schoolfellows  lived  on  together  after  tluir 
return  from  Englebourn,  in  ^  set  of  chambers  in  the  Temple, 
which  one  of  Tom's  college  friends  (who  had  been  beguiled 
from  the  perusal  of  Stephen's  Commentaries  and  aspirations 
after  the  woolsack,  by  the  offer  of  a  place  on  board  a  yacht 
and  a  cruise  to  Norway,)  had  fortunately  lent  him. 

We  join  company  with  our  hero  again  on  a  fine  July 
morning.  Eeaders  will  begin  to  think  that,  at  any  rate,  htj 
is  always  blessed  with  fine  weather  whatever  troubles  he  may 
have  to  endure ;  but,  if  we  are  not  to  have  fine  weather  in 
novels,  when  and  where  are  we  to  have  it?  It  was  a  fine 
July  morning,  then,  and  the  streets  were  already  beginning  to 
feel  sultry  as  he  worked  his  way  westward.  Grey,  who  had 
never  given  up  hopes  of  bringing  Tom  round  to  his  own 
views,  had  not  neglected  the  oppoilunities  which  this  resi- 
dence in  town  offered,  and  had  enhsted  Turn's  services  on 
more  than  one  occasion.  He  had  found  him  specially  useful 
in  instructing  the  big  boys,  whom  he  was  trying  to  bring 
together  and  civili2e  in  a  "Young  Men's  Club,"  in  the  rudi- 
ments of  cricket  on  Saturday  evenings.  But  on  the  morning 
in  question  an  altogether  different  work  was  on  hand. 

A  lady  living  some  eight  or  nine  miles  to  the  north-west  of 
London,  who  took  great  interest  in  Grey's  doings,  had  asked 
him  to  bring  the  children  of  his  night-school  down  to  spend 
a  day  in  her  gi'ouuds,  and  this  was  the  happy  occasion.  It 
was  before  the  days  of  cheap  excui-sions  by  rail,  so  that  vans 
had  to  be  found  for  the  party ;  and  Grey  had  discovered  a 
benevolent  remover  of  furniture  in  Paddington,  who  was 
ready  to  take  them  at  a  reasonable  figure.  The  two  vans, 
with  awnings  and  curtains  in  the  height  of  the  fashion,  and 
horses  with  tasselled  ear-caps,  and  everything  handsome  about 
them,  were  already  drawn  up  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  ex- 
cited children,  and  scarcely  less  excited  mothers,  when  Tom 
arrived.  Grey  was  arranging  his  forces,  and  labouring  to 
reduce  the  Irish  children,  who  formed  almost  half  of  his 
ragged  little  flock,  into  something  like  order  before  starting. 
By  degrees  this  was  managed,  and  Tom  was  placed  in  com- 
mand of  the  lear  van,  while  Grey  reserved  the  leading  one 
to  himself.  The  children  were  divided,  and  warned  not  to 
lean  over  the  sides  and  tumble  out — a  somewhat  superfluous 


622  TOM    BKOWN  AT    OXFOED. 

caution,  as  most  of  them,  though  unused  to  riding  in  any 
legitimate  manner,  were  pretty  well  used  to  balancing  them- 
selves behind  any  vehicle  which  offered  as  much  as  a  spike  to 
sit  on,  out  of  sight  of  the  driver.  Then  came  the  rush  into 
the  vans.  Grey  and  Tom  took  up  theu*  places  next  the  doors 
as  conductors,  and  the  procession  lumbered  off  with  great 
success,  and  much  shouting  from  treble  voices, 

Tom  soon  found  that  he  had  plenty  of  work  on  his  hands 
to  keep  the  peace  amongst  his  flock.  The  Irish  element  was 
in  a  state  of  wild  effervescence,  and  he  had  to  draft  them 
down  to  his  own  end,  leaving  the  foremost  part  of  the  van 
to  the  soberer  English  children.  He  was  much  struck  by  the 
contrast  of  the  whole  set  to  the  Englebourn  school  children, 
whom  he  had  lately  seen  under  somewhat  similar  circum- 
stances. The  difficulty  with  them  had  been  to  draw  them 
out,  and  put  anything  like  life  into  them  ;  here,  all  he  had 
to  do  was  to  repress  the  superabundant  life.  However,  the 
vans  held  on  their  way,  and  got  safely  into  the  suburbs,  and 
so  at  last  to  an  occasional  hedge,  and  a  suspicion  of  trees,  and 
green  fields  beyond. 

It  became  more  and  more  difficult  now  to  keep  the  boys 
in ;  and  when  they  came  to  a  hill,  where  the  horses  had  to 
walk,  he  yielded  to  their  entreaties,  and,  opening  the  door, 
let  them  out,  insisting  only  that  the  giils  should  remain 
seated.  They  scattered  over  the  sides  of  the  roads,  and  up 
the  banks ;  now  chasing  pigs  and  fowls  up  to  the  very  doors 
of  their  owners ;  now  gathering  the  commonest  road-side 
Aveeds,  and  running  up  to  show  them  to  liim,  and  ask  their 
names,  as  if  they  were  rare  treasures.  The  ignorance  of  most 
ol  the  children  as  to  the  commonest  country  matters  astonished 
him.  One  small  boy  particularly  came  back  time  after  time  to 
ask  him,  with  solemn  face,  "  Please,  sk,  is  this  the  country  1 " 
and  when  at  last  he  allowed  that  it  was,  rejoined,  "  Then, 
please,  where  are  the  nuts  ?  " 

The  clothing  of  most  of  the  Irish  boys  began  to  tumble  to 
pieces  in  an  alarming  manner.  Grey  had  insisted  on  their 
being  made  tidy  for  the  occasion,  but  the  tidiness  was  of  a 
superficial  kind.  The  hasty  stitching  soon  began  to  give  way, 
and  they  were  rushing  about  with  wild  locks  ;  the  strips  of 
what  once  might  have  been  nether  garments  hanging  about 
their  legs ;  their  feet  and  heads  bare,  the  shoes  which  their 
mothers  had  borrowed  for  the  state  occasion  having  been 
deposited  under  the  seat  of  the  van.  So,  when  the  proces- 
sion arrived  at  the  trim  lodge-gates  of  their  hostess,  and  his 
cliarge  descended  and  fell  in  on  the  beautifully  clipped  turf 
at  the  side  of  the  drive,  Tom  felt  some  of  the  sensations  of 


THE  BEGINNING   OF   THE    END,  523 

FalstafT  when  he  had  to  lead  his  ragged  regiment  thi-ough 
Coventry  streets. 

He  was  soon  at  his  ease  again,  and  enjoyed  the  day  tho- 
roughly, and  the  drive  home ;  but,  as  they  drew  near  town 
again,  a  sense  of  discomfoit  and  shyness  came  over  him,  and 
he  wished  the  journey  to  Westminster  well  over,  and  hoped 
that  the  carman  would  have  the  sense  to  go  through  the  quiet 
parts  of  the  town. 

He  was  much  disconcerted,  consequently,  when  the  vans 
came  to  a  sudden  stop,  opposite  one  of  the  Park  entrances,  in 
the  Bayswater  Road.  "  What  in  the  world  is  Grey  about  1 " 
he  thought,  as  he  saw  him  get  out,  and  all  the  children  after 
him.  So  he  got  out  himself,  and  went  forward  to  get  an 
explanation. 

"  Oh,  I  have  told  the  man  that  he  need  not  drive  us  round 
to  Westminster.  He  is  close  at  home  here,  and  his  horses 
have  had  a  hard  day ;  so  we  can  just  get  out  and  walk 
home." 

"  TMiat,  across  the  Park  1 "  asked  Tom. 

"  Yes,  it  will  amuse  the  children,  you  know." 

"  But  they're  tired,"  persisted  Tom ;  "  come  now,  it's  aU 
nonsense  letting  the  fellow  off;  he's  bound  to  take  us 
back." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  have  promised  him,"  said  Grey ;  "  besides, 
the  children  all  think  it  a  treat.  Don't  you  all  want  to 
walk  across  the  Parkl"  he  went  on,  turning  to  them,  and 
a  general  affirmative  chorus  was  the  answer.  So  Tom  had 
nothing  for  it  but  to  shrug  his  shoulders,  empty  his  own  van, 
and  follow  into  the  Park  with  his  convoy,  not  in  the  best 
Immour  with  Grey  for  ha%'ing  arranged  this  ending  to  their 
excursion. 

They  might  have  got  over  a  third  of  the  distance  between 
the  Bayswater  Road  and  the  Serpentine,  when  he  was  aware 
of  a  small  thin  voice  addressing  him. 

"  Oh,  please,  won't  you  carry  me  a  bit  1  I'm  so  tired," 
said  the  voice.  He  turned  in  some  trepidation  to  look  for 
the  speaker,  and  found  her  to  be  a  sickly  undergrown  little 
girl,  of  ten  or  thereabouts,  with  large  pleading  grey  eyes, 
very  shabbily  dressed,  and  a  little  lame.  He  had  remarked 
her  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  day,  not  for  any  beauty 
or  gi-ace  about  her,  for  the  poor  child  had  none,  but  for  her 
transparent  confidence  and  trustfuluess.  After  dinner,  as  they 
had  been  all  sitting  on  the  grass  under  the  shade  of  a  great 
elm  to  hear  Grey  read  a  story,  and  Tom  had  been  sitting  a 
little  apart  from  the  rest  with  his  back  against  the  trunk,  she 
had  come  up  and  sat  quietly  down  by  him,  leaning  on  his 


524  TOM    BEOWN    AT    OXFORD. 

knee.  Then  he  had  seen  her  go  up  and  take  the  hand  cf 
tlie  lady  who  had  entertained  them,  and  walk  along  by  her, 
talking  \\nthout  the  least  shyness.  Soon  afterwards  she  had 
squeezed  into  the  swing  by  the  side  of  the  beautifully-dressed 
little  daughter  of  the  same  lady,  who,  after  looking  for  a 
minute  at  her  shabby  little  sister  with  large  round  eyes,  had 
jumped  out  and  run  off  to  her  mother,  evidently  in  a  state  of 
childish  bewilderment  as  to  whether  it  was  not  wicked  for  a 
child  to  wear  such  dirty  old  clothes. 

Tom  had  chuckled  to  himself  as  he  saw  Cinderella  settling 
herself  comfortably  in  the  swing  in  the  place  of  the  ousted 
princess,  and  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  child,  speculating  to 
himself  as  to  how  she  could  have  been  brought  up,  to  be  so 
utterly  unconscious  of  diflerences  of  rank  and  dress.  "  She 
seems  really  to  treat  her  fellow-creatures  as  if  she  had  been 
studying  the  Sartor  Resartus"  he  thought.  "  She  has  cut 
down  through  all  clothes-philosophj'^  without  knowing  it.  I 
wonder,  if  she  had  a  chance,  whether  she  would  go  and  sit 
down  in  the  Queen's  lap  % " 

He  did  not  at  the  time  anticipate  that  she  would  put  his 
own  clothes-philosophy  to  so  severe  a  test  before  the  day  was 
over.  The  child  had  been  as  merry  and  active  as  any  of  the 
rest  during  the  earlier  part  of  the  day  ;  but  now,  as  he  looked 
down  in  answer  to  her  reiterated  plea,  "  Won't  you  carry  me 
a  bit  ?  I'm  so  tired ! "  he  saw  that  she  could  scarcely  drag 
one  foot  after  another. 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  He  was  already  keenly  alive  to 
the  discomfort  of  walking  across  Hyde  Park  in  a  procession  of 
ragged  children,  with  such  a  figure  of  fun  as  Grey  at  their 
head,  looking,  in  his  long,  rusty,  straight-cut  black  coat,  as  if 
he  had  come  fresh  out  of  Noah's  ark.  He  didn't  care  about  it 
so  much  while  they  were  on  the  turf  in  the  out-of-the-way 
parts,  and  would  meet  nobody  but  guards,  and  nurse-maids, 
and  tradespeople,  and  mechanics  out  for  an  evening's  stroll. 
But  the  Drive  and  Eotten  Row  lay  before  them,  and  must  be 
crossed.  It  was  just  the  most  crowded  time  of  the  day.  lie 
had  almost  made  up  his  mind  once  or  twice  to  stop  Grey  and 
the  procession,  and  propose  to  sit  down  for  half-an-hour  or  so 
and  let  the  children  play,  by  which  time  the  world  would  be 
going  home  to  dinner.  But  there  was  no  play  left  in  the 
children  ;  and  he  had  resisted  the  temptation,  meaning,  when 
they  came  to  the  most  crowded  part,  to  look  unconscious,  as 
if  it  were  by  chance  that  he  had  got  into  such  company,  and 
had  in  fact  nothing  to  do  with  them.  But  now,  if  he  listened 
to  the  child's  plea,  and  carried  her,  all  hope  of  concealment 
was  over.    K  he  did  not,  he  felt  that  there  would  be  no  greater 


f 


THE   BEGINNING   OF   THE    END.  525 

flunkey  in  the  Park  that  evening  than  Thomas  Brown,  the 
enlightened  radical  and  philosopher,  amongst  the  young  gentle- 
men riders  in  Rotten  Row,  or  the  powdered  footmen  lounging 
behind  the  great  blaring  carriages  in  the  Drive. 

So  he  looked  down  at  the  child  once  or  twice  in  a  state  of 
puzzle.  A  third  time  she  looked  up  with  her  great  eyes,  and 
said,  "  Oh,  please  carry  me  a  bit !  "  and  her  piteous,  tired  face 
turned  the  scale.  "  If  she  were  Lady  Mary  or  Lady  Blanche," 
thought  he,  "  I  should  pick  her  up  at  once,  and  be  proud  of 
the  burden.  Here  goes  ! "  And  he  took  her  up  in  his  arms, 
and  walked  on,  desperate  and  reckless. 

Notwithstanding  all  his  philosophy,  he  felt  his  ears  tingling 
and  his  face  getting  red,  as  they  approached  the  Drive.  It 
was  crowded.  They  were  kept  standing  a  minute  or  two  at 
the  crossing.  He  made  a  desperate  effort  to  abstract  himself 
wholly  from  the  visible  world,  and  retire  into  a  state  of  serene 
contemplation.  But  it  would  not  do ;  and  he  was  painfully 
conscious  of  the  stare  of  lack-lustre  eyes  of  well-dressed  men 
leaning  over  the  rails,  and  the  amused  look  of  delicate  ladies, 
lounging  in  open  carriages,  and  survejdng  him  and  Grey  and 
their  ragged  rout  through  glasses. 

At  last  they  scrambled  across,  and  he  breathed  freely  for  a 
minute,  as  they  struggled  along  the  comparatively  quiet  path 
leading  to  Albert  Gate,  and  stopped  to  drink  at  the  fountain. 
Then  came  Rotten  Row,  and  another  pauf:e  amongst  the 
loungers,  and  a  plunge  into  the  Ride,  where  he  was  nearly  run 
down  by  two  men  whom  he  had  known  at  Oxford.  They 
shouted  to  him  to  get  out  of  the  way ;  and  he  felt  the  hot 
defiant  blood  rushing  tlirough  his  veins,  as  he  strode  across 
without  heeding.  They  passed  on,  one  of  them  having  to  pull 
his  horse  out  of  his  stride  to  avoid  him.  Did  they  recognise 
him  1  He  felt  a  strange  mixture  of  utter  indifference,  and 
longing  to  strangle  them. 

The  worst  was  now  over ;  besides,  he  was  getting  used  to 
the  situation,  and  his  good  sense  was  beginning  to  rally.  So 
he  marched  through  Albert  Gate,  carrying  his  ragged  little 
charge,  who  prattled  away  to  him  without  a  pause,  and  sur- 
rounded by  the  rest  of  the  children,  scarcely  caring  who  might 
see  him. 

They  won  safely  through  the  omnibuses  and  carriages  on 
the  Kensington  Road,  and  so  into  Belgravia.  At  last  he  was 
quite  at  his  ease  again,  and  began  listening  to  what  the  child 
was  saying  to  him,  and  was  strolling  carelessly  along,  when 
once  more,  at  one  of  the  crossings,  he  was  startled  by  a  shout 
from  some  riders.  There  was  straw  laid  down  in  the  street, 
so  that  he  nad  not  heard  them  as  they  cantered  round  the 


520  TOM   BEOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

comer,  hurrying  home  to  dress  for  dinner ;  and  they  were  all 
but  upon  him,  and  had  to  rein  up  theii'  horses  sharply. 

The  party  consisted  of  a  lady  and  two  gentlemen,  one  old, 
the  other  young ;  the  latter  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion, 
and  with  the  supercilious  air  which  Tom  hated  from  his  soul. 
The  shout  came  from  the  young  man,  and  drew  Tom's  atten- 
tion to  him  first.  All  the  devil  rushed  up  as  he  recognised 
St.  Cloud.  The  lady's  horse  swerved  against  his,  and  began 
to  rear.  He  put  his  hand  on  its  bridle,  as  if  he  had  a  right 
to  protect  her.  Another  glance  told  Tom  that  the  lady  was 
Mary,  and  the  old  gentleman,  fussing  up  on  his  stout  cob  on 
the  other  side  of  her,  Mr.  Porter. 

They  all  knew  him  in  another  moment.  He  stared  from 
one  to  the  other,  was  conscious  that  she  turned  her  horse'a 
head  sharply,  so  as  to  disengage  the  bridle  from  St.  Cloud's 
hand,  and  of  his  insolent  stare,  and  of  the  embarrassment  of 
IMr.  Porter  ;  and  then,  settmg  his  face  straight  before  him,  he 
passed  on  in  a  bewildered  dream,  never  looking  back  till  they 
were  out  of  sight.  The  dream  gave  way  to  bitter  and  wild 
thoughts,  upon  which  it  will  do  none  of  us  any  good  to  dwell. 
He  put  down  the  little  girl  outside  the  schools,  turning 
abruptly  from  the  mother,  a  poor  widow  in  scant,  well-pre- 
served black  clothes,  who  was  waiting  for  the  child,  and  began 
thanking  him  for  his  care  of  her ;  refused  Grey's  pressing 
invitation  to  tea,  and  set  his  face  eastward. — Bitterer  and  more 
wild  and  more  scornful  grew  his  thoughts  as  he  strode  along 
past  the  Abbey,  and  up  \MiitehaU,  and  away  down  the  Strand, 
holding  on  over  the  crossings  without  papng  the  slightest 
heed  to  vehicle,  or  horse,  or  man.  Incensed  coachmen  had  to 
piill  up  with  a  jerk  to  avoid  running  over  him,  and  more  than 
one  sturdy  walker  turned  round  in  indignation  at  a  collision 
which  they  felt  had  been  intended,  or  at  least  which  there 
had  been  no  effort  to  avoid. 

As  he  passed  under  the  window  of  the  Banqueting  Hall, 
and  by  the  place  in  Charing-cross  where  the  pillory  used  to 
stand,  he  growled  to  himself  what  a  pity  it  was  that  the  times 
for  cutting  off  heads  and  cropping  ears  had  gone  by.  The 
whole  of  the  dense  population  from  either  side  of  the  Strand 
seemed  to  have  crowded  out  into  that  thoroughfare  to  impede 
his  march  and  aggravate  him.  The  further  eastward  he  got 
the  thicker  got  the  crowd  ;  and  the  vans,  the  omnibuses,  the 
cabs,  seemed  to  multiply  and  get  noisier.  Not  an  altogether 
pleasant  sight  to  a  man  in  the  most  Christian  frame  of  mind 
is  the  crowd  that  a  fine  summer  evening  fetches  out  into  the 
roaring  Strand,  as  the  sun  fetches  out  fhes  on  the  window  of 
a  village  grocery.    To  him  just  then  it  was  at  once  depressiiig 


THE   BEGINNING   OF  THE   END.  527 

and  provoking,  and  he  wpnt  shonldoring  his  way  towards 
Temple  Bar  as  thoroughly  out  of  tune  as  he  had  been  for 
many  a  long  day. 

As  he  passed  from  the  narrowest  part  of  the  Strand  into 
the  space  round  St.  Clement  Danes'  church,  he  was  startled, 
in  a  momentary  lull  of  the  uproar,  by  the  sound  of  chiming 
bells.  He  slackened  his  pace  to  listen ;  but  a  huge  van 
lumbered  by,  shaking  the  houses  on  both  sides,  and  drowning 
.all  sounds  but  its  own  rattle ;  and  then  he  found  himself 
suddenly  immersed  in  a  crowd,  vociferating  and  gesticulating 
round  a  policeman,  who  was  conveying  a  woman  towards  the 
station  house.  He  shouldered  through  it — another  lull  came, 
and  with  it  the  same  slow,  gentle,  calm  cadence  of  chiming 
bells.  Again  and  again  he  caught  it  as  he  passed  on  to 
Temple  Bar  ;  whenever  the  roar  subsided  the  notes  of  the  old 
hymn  tune  came  dropping  down  on  him  like  balm  from  the 
air.  If  the  ancient  benefactor  who  caused  the  bells  of  St. 
Clement  Danes'  church  to  be  arranged  to  play  that  chime  so 
many  times  a  day  is  allowed  to  hover  round  the  steeple  at 
such  times,  to  watch  the  effect  of  his  benefaction  on  posterity, 
he  must  have  been  well  satisfied  on  that  evening.  Tom  passed 
under  the  Bar,  and  turned  into  the  Temple  another  man, 
softened  again,  and  in  his  right  mind. 

"  There's  always  a  voice  saying  the  right  thing  to  yor 
somewhere,  if  you'll  only  listen  for  it,"  he  thought.  He  took 
a  few  turns  in  the  court  to  clear  his  head,  and  then  went  up, 
and  found  Harry  East  reclining  on  a  sofa,  in  full  view  of  the 
gardens  and  river,  solacing  himself  with  his  accustomed  cheroot. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are,"  he  said,  making  room  on  the  sofa ; — 
"how  did  it  go  oSI" 

*'  Well  enough.     Where  have  you  been  1 " 

"  In  the  City  and  at  the  Docks.  I've  been  all  over  our 
vessel.     She's  a  real  clipper." 

"  AVTien  do  you  sail  ? " 

"  Not  quite  certain.  I  shoidd  say  in  a  fortnight,  though." 
East  puffed  away  for  a  minute,  and  then,  as  Tom  said  nothing, 
went  on.  "  I'm  not  so  sweet  on  it  as  the  time  draws  near. 
There  are  more  of  my  chums  turning  up  every  day  from  India 
at  the  Rag.  And  this  is  uncommonly  pleasant,  too,  living 
with  you  here  in  chambers.  You  may  think  it  odd,  but  I 
don't  half' like  getting  rid  of  you." 

"Thanks  :  but  I  don't  think  you  wiU  get  rid  of  me." 

"  How  do  you  mean  1 " 

"  I  mean  that  I  shall  go  with  you,  if  my  people  wUl  let  mo. 
and  you  will  take  me." 

"  W-h-e-w  !     Anything  happened  1 " 


528  TOM    BEOWN    AT    OXFORD. 

"Yes." 

"  You've  seen  her  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  go  on.  Don't  keep  a  feUow  in  suspense.  I  shall 
be  introduced,  and  eat  one  of  the  old  boy's  good  dinners, 
after  all,  before  I  sail." 

Tom  looked  out  of  window,  and  found  some  difficulty  in 
getting  out  the  words,  "  No,  it's  all  up." 

"  You  don't  mean  it  1 "  said  East,  coming  to  a  sitting  posi- 
tion by  Tom's  side.  "But  how  do  you  know?  Are  you 
sure  ?     What  did  she  say  ? " 

"  Nothing.  I  haven't  spoken  to  her  ;  but  it's  all  up.  She 
was  riding  with  her  father  and  the  fellow  to  whom  she's 
engaged.  I  have  heard  it  a  dozen  times,  but  never  would 
believe  it." 

"  But,  is  that  all  ?  Eiding  with  her  father  and  another 
man  !     Why,  there's  nothing  in  that." 

"Yes,  but  there  is  though.  You  should  have  seen  his 
look.  And  they  all  knew  me  well  enough,  but  not  one  of 
them  nodded  even." 

"  Well,  there's  not  much  in  that  after  all.  It  may  have 
been  chance,  or  you  may  have  fancied  it." 

"No,  one  isn't  quite  such  a  fooL  However,  I  have  no 
right  to  complain,  and  I  won't.  I  could  bear  it  all  well 
enough  if  he  were  not  such  a  cold-hearted  blackguard." 

"  What,  this  fellow  she  was  riding  with  1 " 

"  Yes.  He  hasn't  a  heart  the  size  of  a  pin's  head.  He'll 
break  her's.  He's  a  mean  brute,  too.  She  can't  know  him, 
though  he  has  been  after  her  this  year  and  more.  They  must 
have  forced  her  into  it.  Ah  !  it's  a  bitter  business,"  and  he 
put  his  head  between  his  hands,  and  East  heard  the  deep 
catches  of  his  labouring  breath,  as  he  sat  by  him,  feeling 
deeply  for  him,  but  puzzled  what  to  say. 

"  She  can't  be  worth  so  much  after  all,  Tom,"  he  said  at 
last,  "  if  she  would  have  such  a  fellow  as  that.  Depend  ujDon 
it  she's  not  what  you  thought  her." 

Tom  made  no  answer ;  so  the  captain  went  on  presently, 
thinking  he  had  hit  the  right  note. 

"  Cheer  up,  old  boy.  There's  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  yet  as 
ever  came  out  of  it.  Don't  you  remember  the  song — whose 
is  it  1     Lovelace's  : — 

"  '  If  she  be  not  fair  for  me, 

What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? '  " 

Tom  started  up  almost  fiercely,  but  recovered  himself  in  a 
moment,  and  then  leant  his  head  down  again. 

"  Don't  talk  about  her,  Harry  ;  you  don't  know  her,"  he  said. 


THE  END.  529 

"  And  don't  want  to  know  her,  Tom,  if  slie  is  going  to 
throw  you  over.  Well,  I  shall  leave  you  for  an  hour  or  so. 
CoQie  up  to  me  presently  at  the  Eag,  when  you  feel  better." 

East  started  for  his  club,  debating  within  himself  what  he 
could  do  for  his  friend — whether  calling  out  the  party  mightn't 
do  good. 

Tom,  left  to  himself,  broke  down  at  first  sadly ;  but,  as  the 
evening  wore  on  he  began  to  rally,  and  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  his  father,  making  a  clean  breast,  and  asking  his 
permission  to  go  with  East. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THE    END. 

"My  dear  Katie, — I  know  you  will  be  very  much  pained 
when  you  read  this  letter.  You  two  have  been  my  only 
confidantes,  and  you  have  always  kept  me  up,  and  encouraged 
me  to  hope  that  all  would  come  right.  And  after  all  that 
happened  last  week,  Patty's  marriage,  and  your  engagement 
— the  two  things  upon  earth,  with  one  exception,  that  I  most 
wished  for — I  quite  felt  that  my  own  turn  was  coming.  I 
can't  tell  why  I  had  such  a  strong  feeling  about  it,  but  some- 
how all  the  most  important  changes  in  my  life  for  the  last 
four  years  have  been  so  interwoven  with  Patty  and  Harry 
Winburu's  history,  that,  now  they  were  married,  I  was  sur^ 
something  would  happen  to  me  as  soon  as  1  came  to  London. 
And  I  was  not  wrong.  Dear  Katie,  I  can  hardly  bring  myself 
to  write  it.  It  is  all  over.  I  met  her  in  the  street  to-day ; 
she  was  riding  with  her  father  and  the  man  I  told  you  about. 
They  had  to  pull  up  not  to  ride  over  me ;  so  I  had  a  good 
look  at  her,  and  there  can  be  no  mistake  about  it.  I  have 
often  tried  to  reason  myself  into  the  belief  that  the  evil  day 
must  come  sooner  or  later,  and  to  prepare  myself  for  it ;  but 
I  might  have  spared  myself,  for  it  could  not  have  been  worse 
than  it  is  if  I  had  never  anticipated  it.  My  future  is  all  a  blank 
now.  I  can't  stay  in  England  ;  so  I  have  written  home  to 
ask  them  to  let  me  go  to  New  Zealand  with  East,  and  I  am 
sure  they  will  consent,  when  they  know  all. 

"I  shall  wait  in  town  till  I  get  the  answer.  Perhaps  I 
may  be  able  to  get  off  with  East  in  a  few  weeks.  The  sooner 
the  better ;  but,  of  course,  I  shall  not  go  without  seeing  you 
and  dear  old  Jack.  You  mustn't  mind  me  calhng  him  Jack. 
The  only  thing  that  it  gives  me  any  pleasure  to  think  about, 
is  your  engagement.  It  is  so  right ;  and  one  wants  to  see 
something  going  right,  some  n-nc.  getting  their  due,  to  keep 


530  TOM  BROWN   AT   OXFORD. 

alive  one's  belief  in  justice  being  done  somehow  or  annther 
in  the  world.  And  I  do  see  it,  and  acknowledge  it,  when  I 
think  over  his  history  and  mine  since  we  first  met.  We  have 
both  got  our  due ;  and  you  have  got  yours,  Katie,  for  you 
have  got  the  best  fellow  in  England. 

"  Ah  !  if  I  only  could  think  that  she  has  got  hers  !  If  I 
could  only  believe  that  the  man  she  has  chosen  is  worthy  of  her ! 
I  will  try  hard  to  think  better  of  him.  There  must  be  more 
good  in  him  than  I  have  ever  seen,  or  she  would  never  have 
engaged  herself  to  him.  But  I  can't  bear  to  stop  here,  and 
see  it  all  going  on.  The  sooner  I  am  out  of  England  the 
better.  I  send  you  a  parcel  Avith  this  ;  it  contains  her  notes, 
and  some  old  flowers,  and  other  matters  which  I  haven't  the 
heart  to  burn.  You  will  be  the  best  judge  what  should 
be  done  with  them.  If  you  see  your  way  to  managing  it,  I 
should  like  her  to  know  that  I  had  sent  them  all  to  you,  and 
that,  whatever  may  happen  to  me  hereafter,  my  love  for  her  has 
been  the  mainstay  and  the  guiding-star  of  my  life  ever  since 
that  happy  time  when  you  all  came  to  stay  with  us  in  my 
first  long  vacation.  It  foimd  me  eaten  up  with  selfishness 
and  conceit,  the  puppet  of  my  ovm  lusts  and  vanities,  and  has 
left  me — Well,  never  mind  what  it  has  left  me.  At  any  rate, 
if  I  have  not  gone  from  worse  to  worse,  it  is  aU  owing  to 
her  ;  and  she  ouglit  to  know  it.  It  cannot  be  wrong  to  let  her 
know  what  good  she  has  scattered  unknowingly  about  her 
path.  May  God  bless  and  reward  her  for  it,  and  you,  too, 
dear  cousin,  for  all  your  long  love  and  kindness  to  one  who  is 
very  unworthy  of,  but  very  thankful  for,  them. 

"  Ever  yours,  afifoctionntely, 

"  T.  B." 

The  above  letter,  and  that  to  his  father,  asking  for  leave  to 
emigrate,  having  been  written  and  sent  off,  Tom  was  left,  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  his  upset,  making  manful, 
if  not  very  successfid,  efforts  to  shake  off  the  load  of  depres- 
sion which  weighed  on  him,  and  to  turn  his  thoughts 
resolutely  forward  to  a  new  Ufe  in  a  new  country.  East  was 
away  at  the  Docks.  There  was  no  one  mo^ang  in  the  Temple. 
The  men  who  had  business  were  all  at  Westminster,  or  out 
of  sight  and  hearing  in  the  recesses  of  their  chambers.  Those 
who  had  none  were  for  the  most  part  away  enjoying  them- 
selves, in  one  way  or  another,  amongst  the  mighty  whirl  of 
the  mighty  human  sea  of  London.  There  was  nothing  left 
for  him  to  do  ;  he  had  written  the  only  two  letters  he  had  tc 
write,  and  had  only  to  sit  still  and  wait  for  the  answers,  kill- 
ing the  mean  time  as  well  as  he  could.     Reading  came  hard 


THE    END.  531 

to  him,  but  it  was  the  best  thing  to  do,  perhaps  ;  at  any  rate 
he  was  trying  it  on,  though  his  studies  were  constantly  inter- 
rupted by  long  fits  of  absence  of  mind,  during  which,  though 
his  body  remained  in  the  Temple,  he  was  again  in  the  well- 
kept  garden  of  Barton,  or  in  the  hazel-wood  under  the  lee  of 
the  Berkshire  hills. 

He  was  roused  out  of  one  of  these  reveries,  and  brought 
back  to  external  life  and  Fig-tree  Court,  by  a  single  knock  at 
the  outer  door,  and  a  shout  of  the  newsman's  boy  for  the 
paper.  So  he  got  up,  found  the  paper,  which  he  had  for- 
gotten to  read,  and,  as  he  went  to  the  door,  cast  his  eye  on  it, 
and  saw  tliat  a  great  matcih  was  going  on  at  Lord's.  This 
gave  a  new  turn  to  his  thoughts.  He  stood  looking  down- 
stairs after  the  boy,  considering  whether  he  should  not  start 
at  once  for  the  match. 

He  would  be  sure  to  see  a  lot  of  acquaintance  there  at  any  rate. 
But  the  idea  of  seeing  and  having  to  talk  to  mere  ac([uaintance 
was  more  distasteful  than  his  present  solitude.  He  was  turn- 
ing to  bury  himself  again  in  his  hole,  when  he  saw  a  white 
dog  walk  quietly  up  seven  or  eight  stairs  at  the  bottom  of  the 
flight,  and  then  turn  round,  and  look  for  some  one  to  follow. 

"  How  odd  !  "  thought  Tom,  as  he  watched  him  ;  "  as  like 
as  two  }")eas.  It  can't  be.  No.  ^^Tiy,  yes  it  is."  And  then  he 
whistled,  and  called  "Jack,"  and  the  dog  looked  up,  and  wagged 
his  tail,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  All  right,  I'm  coming  directly  ; 
but  I  must  wait  for  my  master."  The  next  moment  Drysdale 
appeared  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  looking  up,  said — 

"  Oh  !  that's  you,  is  it  1  I'm  aU  right  then.  So  you  knew 
the  old  dog  ]  " 

"  I  should  rather  think  so,"  said  Tom.  "  I  hope  I  never 
forget  a  dog  or  a  horse  I  have  once  known." 

In  the  short  minute  which  Drysdale  and  Jack  took  to 
arrive  at  his  landing,  Tom  had  time  for  a  rush  of  old  college 
memories,  in  which  grave  and  gay,  pleasant  and  bitter,  were 
strangely  mingled.  The  night  when  he  had  been  first  brought 
to  his  senses  about  Patty  came  up  very  vivitlly  before  him, 
and  the  commemoration  days,  when  he  had  last  seen  Drysdale. 
"  How  strange  !  "  he  thought,  "  is  my  old  life  coming  back 
again  just  now  1  Here,  on  the  very  day  after  it  is  all  over, 
comes  back  the  man  with  whom  I  was  so  intimate  up  to  the 
day  it  began,  and  have  never  seen  since.     What  does  it  mean  ?" 

There  was  a  little  touch  of  embarrassment  in  the  manner 
of  both  of  them  as  they  shook  hands  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
and  turned  into  the  chambers.  Tom  motioned  to  Jack  to 
take  his  old  plat'C  at  one  end  of  the  sofa,  and  began  caressing 
him  there,  the  dog  showing  unmistakably,  by  gestui-e  and 
M  M  2 


532  TOM   BEOWK    AT  OXFORD. 

wliiiie,  that  delight  at  renewing  an  old  friendship  foi  which 
his  race  are  so  nobly  distinguished.  Drysdale  threw  himself 
down  in  an  arm-chair,  and  watched  them. 

"  So  you  knew  the  old  dog,  Brown  1 "  he  repeated. 

"  Knew  him  t — of  course  I  did.  Dear  old  Jack  !  How 
well  he  wears  ;  he  is  scarcely  altered  at  all." 

"  Very  little  ;  only  steadier.  More  than  I  can  say  for  his 
master.     I'm  very  glad  you  knew  Jack." 

"  Come,  Drysdale,  take  the  other  end  of  the  sofa,  or  it 
won't  look  like  old  times.  There,  now  I  can  fancy  myself 
back  at  St.  Ambrose's." 

"  By  Jove,  Brown,  you're  a  real  good  fellow.  I  always 
said  so,  even  after  that  last  letter.  You  pitched  it  ratlier 
too  strong  in  that  though.  I  was  very  near  coming  back 
from  Norway  to  quarrel  with  you." 

"  Well,  I  was  very  angry  at  being  left  in  the  lurch  by  you 
and  Blake." 

"  You  got  the  coin  all  right,  I  suppose  1  You  never  ac- 
knowledged it." 

"  Didn't  1 1  Tlien  I  ought  to  have.  Yes,  I  got  it  all 
right  about  six  months  afterwards.  I  ought  to  have  acknow- 
ledged it,  and  I  thought  I  had.  I'm  sorry  I  didn't.  Now 
we're  all  quits,  and  won't  talk  any  more  about  that  rascally  bill" 

"  I  suppose  I  may  light  up,"  said  Drysdale,  dropping  into  his 
old  loungmg  attitude  on  the  sofa,  and  pulling  out  his  cigar-case. 

"  Yes,  of  course.     Will  you  have  anything  ]  " 

"  A  cool  drink  woiddn't  be  amiss." 

"  They  make  a  nice  tankard  with  cider  and  a  lump  of  ice 
at  the  Kainbow.     What  do  you  say  to  that  1 " 

"  It  sounds  touching,"  said  Drysdale.  So  Tom  posted  oflf 
to  Fleet  Street  to  order  the  liquor,  and  came  back  followed  by 
a  waiter  with  the  tankard,  Drysdale  took  a  long  pull,  and 
smacked  his  lips. 

"  That's  a  wrinkle,"  he  said,  handing  the  tankard  to  Tom. 
"  I  suppose  the  lawyers  teach  all  the  publicans  about  here 
a  trick  or  two.  Why,  one  can  fancy  oneself  back  in  the  old 
quad,  looking  out  on  this  court.  If  it  weren't  such  an  out- 
landish out-of-the-way  place,  I  think  I  should  take  some 
chambers  here  myself.     How  did  you  get  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  belong  to  a  friend  of  mine  who  is  away.  But 
how  did  i/ou  get  here  ]  " 

"  Why,  along  the  Strand  in  a  Hansom." 

"  I  mean,  how  did  you  know  I  was  here  1 " 

"  Grey  told  me." 

"  What !  Grey  who  was  at  St.  Ambrose's  with  us  ?  " 

"  Yes.     You  look  puzzled." 


THE   EJTD.  533 

"  I  didn't  think  you  knew  Grey." 

"No  more  I  do.  But  a  stout  old  party  I  mot  last  night 
— your  godfather,  I  should  think  he  is — told  me  where  he 
was,  and  said  I  should  get  your  address  from  liim.  So  I 
looked  him  up  this  momiug,  in  that  dog-hole  in  "Westminster 
where  he  lives.     He  didn't  know  Jack  from  Adam." 

"  But  what  in  the  world  do  you  mean  by  my  godfather  1 " 

"  I  had  better  tell  my  story  from  the  beginning,  I  see. 
Last  night  I  did  what  I  don't  often  do,  went  out  to  a  great 
drum.  There  was  an  awful  crush,  of  course,  and  you  may 
giiess  what  the  heat  was  in  these  dog-days,  with  gas-lights 
and  wax-lights  going,  and  a  jam  of  people  in  every  comer. 
I  was  fool  enough  to  get  into  the  rooms,  so  that  my  retreat 
was  cut  off ;  and  I  had  to  work  right  through,  and  got  at 
last  into  a  back  room,  which  was  not  so  full  The  window 
was  in  a  recess,  and  there  was  a  balcony  outside,  looking  over 
a  little  hit  of  garden.  I  got  into  the  balcony,  talking  with 
a  girl  who  was  sensible  enough  to  like  the  cool.  Presently 
I  heard  a  voice  I  thought  I  knew  inside.  Then  I  heard  St. 
Ambrose,  and  then  your  name.  Of  course  I  listened ;  I 
couldn't  help  myself.  They  were  just  inside  the  window,  in 
the  recess,  not  five  feet  from  us  ;  so  I  hea*d  pretty  nearly 
every  word.  Give  us  the  tankard ;  I'm  as  dry  as  an  ash- 
heap  with  talking." 

Tom,  scarcely  able  to  control  his  impatience,  handed  the 
tankard.  "  But  who  was  it  1 — you  haven't  told  me,"  he  said, 
as  Drysdale  put  it  down  at  last  empty. 

"  Why,  that  d d  St.  Cloud.      He  was    giving   you    a 

nice  character,  in  a  sort  of  sneaking  deprecatory  way,  as  if 
he  was  sorry  for  it.  Ajnongst  other  little  tales,  he  said  you 
used  to  borrow  money  from  Jews — he  knew  it  for  a  certainty 
because  he  had  been  asked  himself  to  join  you  and  another 
man — meaning  me,  of  course — in  such  a  transaction.  You 
remember  how  he  wouldn't  acknoAvledge  the  money  I  lent 
him  at  play,  and  the  note  he  wrote  me  which  upset  Blake 
so.  I  had  never  forgotten  it.  I  knew  I  should  get  my  chance 
some  day,  and  here  it  was.  I  don't  know  what  the  girl 
thought  of  me,  or  how  she  got  out  of  the  balcony,  but  I 
stepped  into  the  recess  just  as  he  had  finished  his  precious 
story,  and  landed  between  him  and  a  comfortable  old  boy, 
who  was  looking  shocked.  He  must  be  your  godfather,  oi 
eometning  of  the  kind.  I'll  bet  you  a  pony  you  are  down 
for  something  handsome  in  his  wilh" 

"  What  was  his  name  1     Did  you  find  out  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  Potter,  or  Porter,  or  something  like  it.  I've  got 
bis  card  somewhere.     I  just  stared  St.  Cloud  in  the  face,  and 


531  TOM    BKOWN    AT    OXFORD. 

you  may  depf^nd  upon  it  he  wiuced.  Then  I  told  the  oM 
boy  that  I  had  heard  their  talk,  and,  as  I  was  at  St.  Ambrose 
with  you,  I  should  like  to  have  five  minutes  with  him  when 
St.  Cloud  had  done.  He  seemed  rather  in  a  corner  between 
us.  However,  I  kept  in  sight  till  St.  Cloud  was  obliged  to 
draw  off;  and,  to  cut  my  story  short,  as  the  tankard  is  empty, 
I  think  I  put  you  pretty  straight  there.  You  said  we  were 
quits  just  now  :  after  last  night,  perhaps  we  are,  for  I  told 
him  the  truth  of  the  Benjamin  story,  and  I  think  he  is 
S(|uared.  He  seems  a  good  sort  of  old  boy.  He's  a  relation 
of  yours,  eh  1 " 

"  Only  a  distant  connexion.    Did  anything  more  happen  1  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  saw  that  he  was  flurried  and  didn't  know  quite 
what  to  thiidi. ;  so  I  asked  him  to  let  me  call,  and  I  would 
bring  him  some  one  else  to  speak  to  your  character.  He 
gave  me  his  card,  and  I'm  going  to  take  Blake  there  to-day. 
Then  I  asked  him  where  you  were,  and  he  didn't  know,  but 
said  he  thought  Grey  could  tell  me." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Drysdale,  to  take  so  much  trouble." 

"  Trouble  !  I'd  go  from  here  to  Jericho  to  be  even  with 
our  fine  friend.  I  never  forget  a  bad  turn.  I  met  him  after- 
wards in  the  cloak-room,  and  went  out  of  the  door  close  after 
him,  to  give  him  a  chance  if  he  wants  to  say  anything.  I 
only  wish  he  would.  But  why  do  you  suppose  he  is  lying 
about  you  1 " 

"  I  can't  tell.  I've  never  spoken  to  him  since  he  left 
Oxford.  .Never  saw  him  till  yesterday,  riding  with  Mr. 
Porter.     I  suppose  that  reminded  them  of  me." 

"  Well,  St.  Cloud  is  bent  on  getting  round  him  for  some 
reason  or  another,  you  may  take  your  oath  of  that.  Now 
my  time's  up  ;  I  shall  go  and  pick  up  Blake.  I  should 
think  I  had  better  not  take  Jack  to  call  in  Eaton  Square, 
though  he'd  give  you  a  good  character  if  he  could  speak  ; 
wouldn't  you,  Jack  ?  " 

Jack  wagged  his  tail,  and  descended  from  the  sofa. 

"  Does  Blake  live  up  here  t     What  he  is  doing  ?  " 

"  Burning  the  candle  at  both  ends,  and  in  the  middle,  as 
■usual.  Yes,  he's  living  near  his  club.  He  writes  political 
articles,  devilish  well  I  hear,  too,  and  is  reading  for  the  bar ; 
beside  which  he  is  getting  into  society,  and  going  out  when- 
ever he  can,  and  fretting  his  soid  out  that  he  isn't  prime 
minister,  or  something  of  the  kind.  He  won't  last  long  at 
the  pace  he's  going." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  But  you'll  come  here  again, 
Drysdale ;  or  let  me  come  and  see  you  1  1  shall  be  very 
anxious  to  hear  what  has  hapj)ened." 


^ 


THE   END.  535 

"  Here's  my  pasteboard ;  I  shall  be  in  town  for  anotiior 
fortnight.     Drop  in  when  you  like." 

And  so  Drysdale  and  Jack  went  off,  leaving  Tom  in  a 
chaotic  state  of  mind.  All  his  old  hopes  were  roused  again 
as  he  thought  over  Drysdale's  narrative.  He  could  no  longer 
sit  still  ;  so  he  rushed  out,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
river-side  walk,  in  the  Temple  gardens,  where  a  fine  breeze 
was  blowing,  at  a  pace  which  astonished  the  gate-keepers 
and  the  nursery -maiils  and  children,  who  were  taking  the 
air  in  that  favourite  spot.  Once  or  twice  he  returned  to 
chambers,  and  at  last  found  East  reposing  after  Ms  excursion 
to  the  Docks. 

East's  quick  eye  saw  at  once  that  something  had  happened  ; 
and  he  had  very  soon  heard  the  whole  story  ;  upon  which  he 
deliberated  for  some  minutes,  and  rejoiced  Tom's  heart  by 
saying :  "  Ah  !  all  up  with  New  Zealand,  I  see.  I  shuU 
be  introduced  after  all  Ijefore  we  start.  Come  along  ;  I  must 
stand  you  a  dinner  on  the  strength  of  the  good  news,  and 
we'll  diink  her  health." 

Tom  called  twice  that  evening  at  Drysdale's  lodgings,  but 
he  was  out.  The  next  morning  he  called  again.  Drysdale 
had  gone  to  Hampton  Court  races,  and  had  left  no  message. 
He  left  a  note  for  him,  but  got  no  answer.  It  was  trying 
work.  Another  day  passed  without  any  word  from  Drysdale, 
who  seemed  never  to  be  at  home  ;  and  no  answer  to  either  of 
his  letters.  On  the  third  morning  he  heard  from  his  fnlher. 
It  was  just  the  answer  which  he  had  expected — as  kind  a 
letter  as  coxdd  be  written.  Mr.  Brown  had  suspected  how 
matters  stood  at  one  time,  but  had  given  up  the  idea  in 
consequence  of  Tom's  silence  ;  which  he  regretted,  as  possibly 
things  might  have  happen<'d  otherwiiie  had  he  known  the 
state  of  the  case.  It  was  too  late  now,  however  ;  and  the 
/ess  said  the  better  about  what  might  have  been.  As  to 
New  Zealand,  he  should  not  oppose  Tom's  going,  if,  after 
some  time,  he  continued  in  his  present  mind.  It  was  veiy 
natural  for  him  just  now  to  wish  to  go,  They  would  talk  it 
over  as  soon  as  Tom  came  home ;  which  ]\Ir.  Brown  begged 
him  to  do  at  once,  or,  at  any  rate,  as  soon  as  he  had  seen 
his  friend  off.     Home  was  the  best  place  for  him. 

Tom  sighed  as  he  folded  it  up  ;  the  hopes  of  the  last  three 
days  seemed  to  be  fading  away  again.  He  spent  another  rest- 
less day  ;  and  by  night  had  persuaded  himself  that  Drys- 
dale's mission  had  been  a  complete  failure,  and  that  he  did  not 
jvrite  and  kept  out  of  the  way  out  of  kindness  to  him. 

"  Why,  Tom,  old  fellow,  you  look  as  down  in  the  mouth 
as  ever  to-night,"  East  said,  when  Tom  opened  the  door  for 


536  TOM    BROWN   AT    OXFORD. 

hiDi  about  midnight,  on  his  return  from  his  club;  "cheer  up; 
you  may  depend  it's  all  to  go  right." 

"  But  I  haven't  seen  Drysdale  again,  and  he  hasn't  written." 

"  There's  nothing  in  that.  He  was  glad  enough  to  do  you 
a  good  turn,  I  dare  say,  when  it  came  in  his  way,  but  that 
sort  of  fellow  never  can  keep  anything  up.  He  has  been  too 
much  used  to  having  his  own  way,  and  followdng  his  owp 
fancies.  Don't  you  lose  heart  because  he  won't  put  himself 
out  for  you." 

"  Well,  Harry,  you  are  the  best  fellow  in  the  world.  You 
would  put  backbone  into  any  one." 

"  Now,  we'll  just  have  a  quiet  cheroot,  and  then  turn  in  ; 
and  see  if  you  don't  have  good  news  to-morrow.  How  hot 
it  is  !  the  Strand  to-niglit  is  as  hot  as  the  Pmijaub  and  the 
reek  of  it — phah  !  my  throat  is  full  of  it  still." 

East  took  off  his  coat,  and  was  just  throwing  it  on  a  chair, 
when  he  stopped,  and,  feeling  in  the  pocket,  said — 

"  Let's  see,  here's  a  note  for  you.  The  porter  gave  it  me 
as  I  knocked  in." 

Tom  took  it  carelessly,  but  the  next  moment  was  tearing  it 
open  with  trembling  fingers.  "  From  my  cousin,"  he  said. 
East  watched  him  read,  and  saw  the  blood  rush  to  his  face, 
and  the  light  come  into  his  eyes. 

"  Good  news,  Tom,  I  see.  Bravo,  old  boy.  You've  had  a 
long  fight  for  it,  and  deserve  to  win." 

Tom  got  up,  tossed  the  note  across  the  table,  and  began  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  room  ;  his  heart  was  too  full  for  speech. 

"  May  I  read  1  "  said  East,  looking  up, 

Tom  nodded,  and  he  read — 

"  Dear  Tom, — I  am  come  to  town  to  spend  a  week  with 
them  in  Eaton  Square,  Call  on  me  to-morrow  at  twelve,  or, 
if  you  are  engaged  then,  between  three  and  five.  I  have  no 
time  to  add  more  now,  but  long  to  see  you. — Your  loving 
cousin,  Katie, 

"  P.S. — I  will  give  you  your  parcel  back  to-morrow,  and 
then  you  can  bur7i  the  contents  yourself,  or  do  what  you  like 
with  them.  Uncle  bids  me  say  he  shall  be  glad  if  you  will 
come  and  dine  to-morrow,  and  any  other  day  you  can  spare 
while  I  am  here." 

When  he  had  read  the  note,  East  got  up  and  shook  hands 
heartily  with  Tom,  and  then  sat  down  again  quietly  to  finish 
his  cheroot,  watching  with  a  humorous  look  his  friend's 
Biarch. 

"  And  you  think  it  is  really  all  right  now  1 "  Tom  asked, 
Vn  one  form  or   another,  after    every  few  turns ;   and  East 


THE   END.  537 

rojilied  in  various  forms  of  chaffing  assurance  tliat  there 
could  not  be  much  further  question  on  the  point.  At  last, 
when  he  had  finished  his  cheroot,  he  got  up,  and,  taking  his 
candle,  said,  "  Good  night,  Tom  ;  when  that  revolution  comes, 
which  you're  always  predicting,  remember,  if  you're  not  shot 
or  hung,  you'll  always  find  a  roost  for  you  and  your  wife 
in  New  Zealand." 

"  I  don't  feel  so  sure  about  the  revolution  now,  Harry." 
"  Of  course  you  don't.     Mind,  I  bargain  for  the  dinner  in 
Eaton  Square.     I  always  told  you  I  should  dine  there  before 

I  started." 

****** 

The  next  day  Tom  found  that  he  was  not  engaged  at  twelve 
o'clock,  and  was  able  to  appear  in  Eaton  Square.  He  was 
shown  up  into  the  di-awing-room,  and  found  Katie  alone 
there.  The  quiet  and  coolness  of  the  dai-kened  room  was 
most  grateful  to  him  after  the  glare  of  the  streets,  as  he  sat 
down  by  her  side. 

"  But,  Katie,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  the  first  salutations  and 
congratulations  had  passed,  "  how  did  it  all  happen  1  I  can't 
believe  my  senses  yet.  I  am  afraid  I  may  wake  up  any 
minute." 

"  Well,  it  was  chiefly  owing  to  two  lucky  coincidences  ; 
though  no  doubt  it  would  have  all  come  right  in  time  without 
them." 

"  Our  meeting  the  other  day  in  the  street,  I  suppose,  for 
one  V 

"  Yes.  Coming  across  you  so  suddenly,  carrying  the  little 
girl,  reminded  Mary  of  the  day  when  she  sprained  her  ancle, 
and  you  carried  her  through  Hazel  Copse.  Ah,  you  never 
told  me  all  of  that  adventure,  either  of  you." 

"  All  that  was  necessary,  Katie." 

"  Oh !  I  have  pardoned  you.  Uncle  saw  then  that  she 
was  very  much  moved  at  something,  and  guessed  well  enough 
what  it  was.  He  is  so  very  kind,  and  so  fond  of  Mary,  he 
would  do  anything  in  the  world  that  she  wished.  She  was 
quite  unwell  that  evening  ;  so  he  and  aunt  had  to  go  out 
alone,  and  they  met  that  IVIr.  St.  Cloud  at  a  party,  who  was 
said  to  be  engaged  to  her." 

"  It  wasn't  true,  then  1 " 

"No,  never.  He  is  a  very  designing  man,  though  I 
believe  he  was  really  in  love  with  poor  Mary.  At  any  rate 
he  has  persecuted  her  for  more  than  a  year.  And,  it  is  very 
wicked,  but  I  am  afraid  he  spread  all  those  reports  himself." 

"  Of  their  engagement  1     Just  like  him  ! " 

'Uncle  is  so  good-natured,  you  know;  and  he  took  ad. 


538  TOM    BKOWN   AT   OXFORD. 

vantage  of  it,  and  was  always  coming  here,  and  riding  with 
them.  And  he  had  made  uncle  believe  dreadful  stories  abcjut 
you,  which  made  him  seem  so  unkind.  He  was  quite  afraid 
to  have  you  at  the  house." 

"  Yes,  I  saw  that  last  year  ;  and  the  second  coincidence  ?  ' 

"  It  happened  that  very  night.  Poor  uncle  was  veiy 
much  troubled  what  to  do ;  so,  when  he  met  Mr.  St.  Cloud, 
as  I  told  you,  he  took  him  aside  to  ask  him  again  about  you. 
Somehow,  a  gentleman  who  was  a  friend  of  yours  at  Oxford 
overheard  what  was  said,  and  came  forward  and  explained 
everything." 

"  Yes,  he  came  and  told  me." 

"  Then  you  know  more  than  I  about  it." 

"  And  you  think  Mr.  Porter  is  convinced  that  I  am  not 
quite  such  a  scamp  after  all  t " 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  and  the  boys  are  so  delighted  that  they  will 
see  you  again.  They  are  at  home  for  the  holidays,  and  so  grown." 

"  And  Mary  ?  " 

"  She  is  very  well.    You  will  see  her  before  long,  I  dare  say." 

"  Is  slie  at  home  t  " 

*'  She  is  out  riding  with  uncle.  Now  I  will  go  up  and  get 
your  parcel,  which  I  had  opened  at  home  before  I  got  aunt's 
note  asking  me  here.    No  wonder  we  could  never  find  her  boot." 

Katie  disappeared,  and  at  the  same  time  Tom  thought  he 
heard  the  sound  of  horses'  feet.  Yes,  and  they  have  stopped, 
too  ;  it  must  be  Mary  and  her  father.  He  could  not  see, 
because  of  the  blinds  and  other  devices  for  keeping  the  room 
cool.  But  the  next  moment  there  were  voices  in  the  hall 
below,  and  then  a  light  step  on  the  carjieted  stair  which  no 
ear  but  his  coidd  have  heard.  His  heart  beat  with  heavy, 
painful  pidsations,  and  his  head  swam  as  the  door  opened, 
and  Mary  in  her  riding-habit  stood  in  the  room. 


CHAPTER    L. 

THE    POSTSCRIPT. 

OuB  curtain  must  rise  once  again,  and  it  shall  be  on  a 
familiar  spot.  Once  more  we  must  place  ourselves  on  the 
Hawk's  Lynch,  and  look  out  over  the  well-known  view,  and 
the  happy  autumn  fields,  ripe  with  the  golden  harvest.  Two 
jeople  are  approaching  on  horseback  from  the  Barton  side, 
who  have  been  made  one  since  we  left  them  at  the  fall  of  the 
curtain  in  the  last  chapter.  They  ride  lovingly  together, 
close  to  one  another,  and  forgetful  of   the  whole  world,  as 


THE    POSTSCRIPT.  539 

they  should  do,  for  they  have  scarcely  come  to  the  end  of 
their  honeymoon. 

They  are  in  country  costume — she  in  a  light  plain  habit, 
but  well  cut,  and  sitting  on  her  as  well  as  she  sits  on  her 
dainty  grey  ;  he  in  shooting-coat  and  wide-awake,  with  his 
fishing  basket  slung  over  Ills  shoulder.  They  come  steadily 
up  the  hill-side,  rousing  a  yellow-hammer  here  and  there 
from  the  furze-bushes,  and  only  draw  bit  when  they  have 
reached  the  very  top  of  the  knoll.  Then  they  disiuount.  and 
Tom  produces  two  halters  from  his  fishing  basket,  and  takuig 
off  the  bridles,  fastens  the  horses  up  in  the  shade  of  the 
fir-trees,  and  loosens  their  girths,  while  Mary,  after  searching 
in  the  basket,  pulls  out  a  bag,  and  pours  out  a  prodigal  feed 
of  corn  before  each  of  theiu,  on  the  short  grass. 

"  WHiat  are  you  doiag,  you  wasteful  little  woman  ?  You 
should  have  put  the  bag  underneath.  They  won't  be  able 
to  pick  up  half  the  corn." 

"Never  mind,  dear ;  then  the  birds  will  get  it." 

"  And  you  have  given  them  enough  for  three  feeds." 

'•'  Why  did  you  put  so  much  in  the  bag  ?  Besides,  you 
know  it  is  the  last  feed  I  shall  give  her.  Poor  dear  little 
Gii»sy,"  she  added,  patting  the  neck  of  her  dapple  grey  ; 
"  you  have  found  a  kind  mistress  for  her,  dear  ;  haven't  you  ]  " 

"  Yes  ;  she  will  be  lightly  worked  and  well  cared  for,"  he 
said  shortly,  tiu'ning  away,  and  busying  himself  with  the 
basket  again. 

"  But  no  one  will  ever  love  you,  Gipsy,  like  your  old  mis- 
tress. Now  give  me  a  kiss,  and  you  shall  have  your  treat," 
and  she  pulled  a  piece  of  sugar  out  of  the  pocket  of  her 
riding  habit ;  at  the  sight  of  which  the  grey  held  out  her 
beautiful  nose  to  be  -fondled,  and  then  lapped  up  the  sugar 
with  eager  lips  from  Mary's  hand,  and  turned  to  her  corn. 

The  young  wife  tripped  across,  and  sat  down  near  her 
husband,  who  was  laying  out  their  Imicheon  on  the  turf. 
"  It  was  very  dear  of  you  to  think  of  coming  here  for  our 
last  ride,"  she  said.  *'  I  remember  how  charmed  I  was  with 
the  place  the  fii'st  Sunday  I  ever  spent  at  Euglebourn,  when 
Katie  brought  me  up  here  directly  after  breakfast,  before  wo 
went  to  the  school.  Such  a  time  ago  it  seems — before  I  ever 
saw  you.  And  I  have  never  been  here  since.  But  I  love  it 
most  for  your  sake,  dear.  Now  tell  me  again  all  the  times 
you  have  been  here." 

Tom  proceeded  to  recount  some  of  liis  visits  to  the  Hawk's 
Lynch,  in  which  we  have  accompanied  him.  And  then  they 
talked  on  about  Katie,  and  East,  and  the  Englebourn  people, 
puist  and  present,  old  Betty,  and  ilarry  and  his  wife  in  New 


540  TOM   BKOWN    AT    OXFORD. 

Zealand,  and  David  patcliing  coats  and  tending  bees,  and 
executing  the  Queen's  justice  to  the  best  of  his  ability  in  tlie 
villiige  at  their  feet. 

"  Poor  David,  I  must  get  over  somehow  to  see  him  before 
we  leave  home.  He  feels  your  uncle's  death,  and  the  other 
changes  in  the  parish,  more  than  any  one." 

"  1  am  so  sorry  the  living  was  sold,"  said  Mary  ;  "  Katie 
and  her  husband  would  have  made  Englebourn  into  a  liLlle 
paradise." 

"  It  could  not  be  helped,  dear.  I  can't  say  I'm  sorry. 
There  would  not  have  been  work  enough  for  him.  He  is 
better  where  he  is,  in  a  great  town-parish." 

"  But  Katie  did  love  the  place  so,  and  was  so  used  to  it ; 
she  had  become  quite  a  Little  queen  there  before  her  marriage. 
See  what  we  women  have  to  give  up  for  you,"  she  said,  play- 
fully, turning  to  him.  But  a  shadow  passed  over  his  face, 
and  he  looked  away  without  answering. 

"  What  makes  you  look  sorrowful,  dear  ?  What  are  you 
thiidcing  of?" 

"  Oil,  nothing  ! " 

"  That  isn't  true.  Now,  tell  me  what  it  is.  Tou  have  no 
right,  you  know,  to  keep  anything  from  me." 

"  I  can't  bear  to  think  that  you  have  had  to  sell  Gipsy. 
You  have  never  been  witliout  a  riding  horse  till  now.  You 
will  miss  your  riding  dreadl'ully,  I  am  sure,  dear." 

"  I  sliall  do  very  well  without  riding.  I  am  so  proud  of 
learning  my  li;sson  from  you.  You  will  see  what  a  poor  man's 
wife  I  shall  make.  I  have  been  getting  mamma  to  let  me  do 
the  housekee{)ing,  and  know  how  a  joint  should  look,  and  all 
sorts  of  useful  things.  And  I  have  made  my  own  house-linen. 
]  shall  soon  get  to  hate  all  luxuries  as  much  as  you  do." 

"  jS' ow,  Mary,  you  mustn't  run  into  extremes.  I  never  said 
you  ought  to  hate  all  luxuries,  but  that  almost  everybody  one 
knows  is  a  slave  to  them." 

"  Well,  and  I  hate  anything  that  wants  to  make  a  slave  of  me." 

"You  are  a  dear  little  free  woman.  But  now  we  are  on 
this  subject  again,  Mary,  I  really  want  to  speak  to  you  about 
keejnng  a  lady's  maid.  We  can  quite  afford  it,  and  you  ought 
to  have  one." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  Not  to  oblige  me,  Mary  ?" 

"  No,  not  even  to  oblige  you.  There  is  something  to  be 
paid  for  dear  Gipsy.  But,  take  a  maid  again  !  to  do  nothing 
but  torment  me,  and  pretend  to  take  care  of  my  clothes,  and 
my  hair !  I  never  knew  what  freedom  was  till  I  got  rid  of 
poor,  foolish,  grumbling  Higgins." 


THE   POSTSCRIPT. 


a 


"  But  you  may  get  i  nice  girl  who  will  be  a  comfort  to  you.' 

"  No,  I  never  will  have  a  woman  again  to  do  nothing  but 
look  after  me.  It  isn't  fair  to  them.  Besides,  dear,  you  can't 
say  that  I  don't  look  better  since  I  have  done  my  own  hair. 
Did  you  ever  see  it  look  brighter  than  it  does  now  ] " 

"  Never ;  and  now  here  is  luncheon  all  ready."  So  they 
sat  down  on  the  verge  of  the  slope,  and  ate  their  cold  chicken 
and  tongue,  with  the  relish  imparted  by  youth,  a  long  ride, 
and  the  bracing  air. 

]\Iary  was  merrier  and  brighter  than  ever,  but  it  was  an 
effort  with  him  to  respond ;  and  soon  she  began  to  notice 
this,  and  then  there  was  a  pause,  which  she  broke  at  last  with 
something  of  an  effort. 

"There  is  that  look  again.  What  makes  you  look  so 
serious,  now  1     I  must  know." 

"  Was  I  looking  serious  1  I  beg  your  pardon,  dearest,  and  I 
won't  do  so  again  any  more  ;"  and  he  smiled  as  he  answered, 
but  the  smile  faded  away  before  her  steady,  loving  gaze,  and  he 
turned  slightly  from  her,  and  looked  out  over  the  vale  below. 

She  watched  him  for  a  short  time  in  silence,  her  own  fair 
young  face  changing  like  a  summer  sea  as  the  light  clouds 
pass  over  it.  Presently  she  seemed  to  have  come  to  some 
decision ;  for,  taking  off  her  riding  hat,  she  threw  it  and  her 
whip  and  gauntlets,  on  the  turf  beside  her,  and  drawing 
nearer  to  his  side,  laid  her  hand  on  his.  He  looked  at  her 
fondly,  and,  stroking  her  hair,  said — 

"  Take  care  of  your  complexion,  Mary." 

"  Oh,  it  will  take  care  of  itself  in  this  air,  dear.  Besides, 
you  are  between  me  and  the  sun ;  and  now  you  viust  tell  me 
why  you  look  so  serious.  It  is  not  the  first  time  I  have 
noticed  that  look.  I  am  your  wife,  you  know,  and  I  have  a 
right  to  know  your  thoughts,  and  to  share  all  your  joy,  and 
all  your  sorrow.  I  do  not  mean  to  give  up  any  of  my  rights 
vhich  I  got  by  marrying  you." 

"  Your  rights,  dearest !  your  poor  little  rights,  which  you 
have  gained  by  changing  name,  and  plightuag  troth.  It  is 
thinking  of  that — thinking  of  what  you  have  bought,  and  the 
price  you  have  paid  for  it,  which  makes  me  sad  at  times  :  even 
when  you  are  sitting  by  me,  and  laying  your  hand  on  my  hand, 
and  the  sweet  burden  of  youi-  pure  life  and  being  on  my  soiled 
and  baffled  manhood." 

"  But  it  was  my  own  bargain,  you  know,  dear,  and  I  am  satis- 
fied with  my  purchase.  I  paid  the  price  with  my  eyes  open." 
"Ah,  if  I  could  only  feel  that  !  " 

"But  you  know  that  it  is  true." 

"  No,  dearest,  that  is  the  pinch.     I  do  not  know  that  it  is 


542  TOM  BKO^VN  AT  OXFORD. 

true.  T  nftpD  feel  that  it  is  just  not  a  bit  true.  Tt  was  a  one- 
sided bargain,  in  which  on"  of  the  parties  had  eyes  open  and 
got  all  the  advantage  ;  and  that  party  was  I." 

"  I  will  not  have  you  so  conceited,"  she  said,  patting  his 
hand  once  or  twice,  and  looking  more  bravely  than  ever  up 
into  his  eyes.  "  Why  should  you  think  you  were  so  much 
the  cleverer  of  the  two  as  to  get  all  the  good  out  of  our  bar- 
gain 1  I  am  not  going  to  allow  that  you  were  so  much 
the  most  quick-witted  and  clear-sigh  tod.  Women  are  said 
to  be  as  quick-witted  as  men.  Perhaps  it  is  not  I  who 
have  been  outwitted  after  all." 

"  Look  at  the  cost,  Mary.  Think  of  what  you  will  have 
to  give  up.     You  cannot  reckon  it  up  yet." 

"  What !  you  are  going  back  to  the  riding-horses  and  lady's 
maid  again.    I  thought  I  had  convinced  you  on  those  points." 

"  They  are  only  a  very  small  part  of  the  priee.  You 
have  left  a  home  where  everybody  loved  you.  You  km-w 
it ;  you  were  sure  of  it.  You  had  felt  their  love  ever  since 
you  could  remember  anytliing." 

"  Yes,  dear,  and  I  feel  it  still.  They  will  be  all  just  as 
fond  of  me  at  home,  though  I  am  your  wife." 

"  At  home  !      It  is  no  longer  your  home." 

"  No,  I  have  a  home  of  my  own  now.  A  new  home 
with  new  love  there  to  live  on  ;  and  an  old  home,  with 
the  old  love  to  think  of." 

"  A  new  home  instead  of  an  old  one  ;  a  poor  home  in- 
stead of  a  rich  one — a  home  where  the  cry  of  the  sorrow 
and  suffering  of  the  world  will  reach  you,  for  one  in  which 
you  had — " 

"In  which  I  had  not  you,  dear.  There  now,  that  was 
my  purchase.  I  set  my  mind  on  having  you — buying  you, 
as  that  is  your  word.  I  have  paid  my  price,  and  got  my 
bargain,  and — you  know,  I  was  always  an  oddity,  and  ratlier 
wilful — am  content  with  it." 

"  Yes,  Mary,  you  have  bought  me,  and  you  little  know, 
dearest,  what  you  have  bought  I  can  scarcely  bear  my 
own  selfishness  at  times  when  I  think  of  what  your  life 
might  have  been  had  I  left  you  alone,  and  what  it  must 
be  with  me." 

"  And  what  might  it  have  been,  dear  1 " 

"  Why  you  miglit  have  married  some  man  with  plenty 
of  money,  who  could  have  given  you  everything  to  which 
you  have  been  used." 

"  I  shall  begin  to  think  that  you  believe  in  luxuries,  after 
all,  if  you  go  on  making  so  much  of  them.  You  must  not 
go  on  preaching  one  thing   ind  practising  another.     I  am  a 


TEE    POSTSmiPT.  54:5 

convert  to  your  preaching,  and  belipve  in  the  misery  of 
multiplying  artificial  wants.     Your  wife  must  have  none." 

"  Yes,  but  wealth  and  position  are  not  to  be  despised.  J 
feel  that,  now  that  it  is  all  done  past  recall,  and  I  have  to 
think  of  you.  But  the  loss  of  them  is  a  mere  nothing  to 
what  you  will  have  to  go  through." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  dear  1  Of  course  we  must  expect 
some  troubles,  like  other  people." 

"  AA'hy,  I  mean,  Mary,  that  you  might,  at  least,  have  mar- 
ried a  contented  man  ;  some  one  who  foimd  the  world  a  very 
good  world,  and  was  satisfied  with  things  as  they  are,  and  had 
lii,'ht  enough  to  steer  himself  by ;  and  not  a  fellow  like  me, 
full  of  all  manner  of  doubts  and  perplexities,  who  sees  little 
but  wrong  in  the  world  about  him,  and  more  in  himself." 

"  You  think  I  should  have  been  more  comfortable  1 " 

"  Yes,  more  comfortable  and  happier.  What  right  had  I 
to  bring  my  worries  on  you  ?  For  I  know  you  can't  live  with 
me,  dearest,  and  not  be  bothered  and  annoyed  when  I  am 
anxious  and  dissatisfied." 

"  But  what  if  I  did  not  marry  you  to  be  comfortable  ? " 

"  My  darling,  you  never  thought  about  it,  and  I  was  too 
selfish  to  tliink  for  you." 

"  There  now,  you  see,  it  is  just  as  1  said." 

"  How  do  you  mean  1 " 

"  I  mean  that  you  are  quite  wrong  in  thinking  that  T  have 
been  deceived.  I  did  not  marry  you,  dear,  to  be  comfortable 
— and  I  did  think  it  all  over  ;  ay,  over  and  over  again.  So  you 
are  not  to  run  away  with  the  belief  that  you  have  taken  me  in." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  enough  to  give  it  up,  dearest,  if  you  can 
convince  me." 

"  Then  you  will  listen  while  I  explain  1 " 

"  Yes,  with  aU  my  ears  and  all  my  heart." 

"  You  remember  the  year  that  we  met,  when  we  danced  and 
went  nutting  together,  a  thoughtless  boy  and  girl — " 

"  Remember  it !     Have  I  ever — " 

"  You  are  not  to  interrupt.  Of  course  you  remember  it  all, 
and  are  ready  to  tell  me  that  you  loved  me  the  first  moment 
you  saw  me  at  the  window  in  High-street.  Well,  perhaj)s  I 
shall  not  object  to  be  told  it  at  a  proper  time,  but  now  T  am 
making  my  confessions.  I  liked  you  then,  because  you  were 
Katie's  cousin,  and  almost  my  first  partner,  and  were  never 
tired  of  dancing,  and  were  generally  merry  and  pleasant, 
though  you  sometimes  took  to  lecturing,  even  in  those 
days." 

"  But,  Mary—" 

"  You  are  to  be  silent  now  and  listen.     I  liked  you  thf»n. 


544  TOM    BROWN    AT    OXFORD 

But  you  are  not  to  look  conceited  and  flatter  yourself.  It  was 
only  a  girl's  fancy.  I  couldn't  have  married  you  then — given 
myself  up  to  you.  No,  I  don't  think  I  could,  even  on  the 
night  when  you  fished  for  me  out  of  the  window  with  the 
heather  and  heliotrope,  though  I  kept  them  and  have  them 
still.  And  then  came  that  scene  down  below,  at  old  Simon's 
cottage,  and  I  thought  I  should  never  wish  to  see  you  again. 
And  then  I  came  out  in  London,  and  went  abroad.  I  scarcely 
heard  of  you  again  for  a  year,  for  Katie  hardly  ever  mentioned 
you  in  her  letters  ;  and,  though  I  sometimes  wished  that  she 
would,  and  thought  I  should  just  like  to  know  what  you  were 
doing,  I  was  too  proud  to  ask.  Meantime  I  went  out  and 
enjoyed  myself,  and  had  a  great  many  pretty  things  said  to 
me — miich  pretticsr  things  than  you  ever  said — and  made  the 
acquaintance  of  pleasant  young  men,  friends  of  papa  and 
mamma ;  many  of  them  witli  good  establishments  too.  But 
I  shall  not  tell  you  anything  more  about  them,  or  you  will  be 
going  off  about  the  luxuries  I  have  been  used  to.  Then  I 
began  to  hear  of  you  again.  Katie  came  to  stay  with  us, 
and  I  met  some  of  your  Oxford  friends.  Poor  dear  Katie  I 
she  was  full  of  you  and  your  wild  sayings  and  doings,  half- 
frightened  and  half- pleased,  but  all  the  tinje  the  best  and 
truest  friend  you  ever  had.  Some  of  the  rest  were  not  friends 
at  all ;  and  I  have  heaid  many  a  sneer  and  unkind  word,  and 
stories  of  your  monstrous  speeches  and  habits.  Some  said 
you  were  mad  ;  others  that  you  liked  to  be  eccentric ;  that 
you  couldn't  bear  to  live  with  your  equals  ;  that  you  sought 
the  society  of  your  ini'eriors  to  be  flattered.  I  listened,  and 
thought  it  all  over,  and,  being  wilful  and  eccentric  myself, 
you  know,  liked  more  and  more  to  hear  about  you,  and  hoped 
1  should  see  you  again  some  day.  I  was  curious  to  judge  for 
myself  whether  you  were  much  changed  for  the  better  or  the 
worse.  And  at  last  came  the  day  when  I  saw  you  again, 
carrying  the  poor  lame  child  ;  and,  after  that,  you  know  what 
happened.  So  here  we  are,  dear,  and  you  are  my  husband. 
And  you  will  please  never  to  look  serious  again,  from  any 
foolish  thought  that  I  have  been  taken  in  ;  that  I  did  not 
know  what  I  was  about  when  I  took  you  '  for  better  for  worse, 
for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  till  death  us 
do  part.'     Now,  wliat  have  you  to  say  for  yourself? " 

"Nothing;  but  a  great  deal  for  you.  I  see  more  and 
more,  my  darling,  what  a  brave,  generous,  pitying  angel  I 
have  tied  to  myself.  But  seeing  that  makes  me  despise 
mysL'lf  more." 

"  What !  you  are  going  to  dare  to  disobey  me  already  ? '' 
"  I  can't  help  it,  deai-est.     All  you  say  shows  me  more  and 


THE   POSTSCRIPT.  545 

more  tliat  you  have  made  all  the  sacrifice,  and  I  am  to  get  all 
the  benefit.  A  man  like  me  has  no  right  to  bring  such  a 
woman  as  you  under  his  burthen." 

"  Eut  you  couldn't  help  yourself.  It  was  because  you  were 
out  of  sorts  with  the  world,  smarting  with  the  wrongs  you 
saw  on  every  side,  struggling  after  sometliing  better  and 
higher,  and  siding  and  sympathising  wdth  the  poor  and  weak, 
that  I  loved  you.  We  should  never  have  been  here,  dear,  if 
you  had  been  a  young  gentleman  satisfied  with  himself  and 
the  Avorld,  and  likely  to  get  on  well  in  society." 

"  Ah,  Mary,  it  is  all  very  well  for  a  man.  It  is  a  man's 
business.  Eut  why  is  a  woman's  life  to  be  made  wretched  ? 
Why  should  you  be  dragged  into  all  my  perplexities,  and 
doubts,  and  di-eams,  and  struggles  1 " 

"  And  why  should  I  not  1 " 

"  Life  should  be  all  briglit  and  beautiful  to  a  woman.  It 
is  every  man's  duty  to  shield  her  from  all  that  can  vex,  or 
pain,  or  soil." 

"  Eut  have  women  different  souls  from  men  1 " 

"God  forbid!" 

"  Then  are  we  not  fit  to  share  your  highest  hopes  1 " 

"  To  share  our  highest  hopes  !  Yes,  when  we  have  any. 
But  the  mire  and  clay  where  one  sticks  fast  over  and  over 
again,  with  no  high  hopes  or  high  anything  else  in  sight — 
a  man  must  be  a  selfish  brute  to  bring  one  he  pretends  to 
love  into  all  that." 

"  JSTow,  Tom,"  she  said  almost  solemnly,  "  you  are  Hot  true 
to  yourself.  Would  you  part  with  your  own  deepest  convic- 
tions 1  Would  you,  if  you  could,  go  back  to  the  time  when 
you  cared  for  and  thought  about  none  of  these  things  1 " 

He  thought  a  minute,  and  then,  pressing  her  hand,  said — 

"  ^0,  dearest,  I  would  not.  The  consciousness  of  the  dark- 
ness in  one  and  around  one  brings  the  longing  for  light.  And 
then  the  light  dawns ;  through  mist  and  fog,  perhaps,  but 
enough  to  pick  one's  way  by."  He  stopped  a  moment,  and 
ttien  added,  "and  shines  ever  brighter  unto  the  perfect  day. 
Yes,  I  begin  to  know  it." 

"  Then,  why  not  put  me  on  your  own  level  ?  Why  not  let 
me  pick  my  way  by  your  side?  Cannot  a  woman  feel  the 
wrongs  that  are  going  on  in  the  world]  Cannot  she  long 
to  see  them  set  right,  and  pray  that  they  may  be  set  right  ? 
We  are  not  meant  to  sit  in  fine  silks,  and  look  pretty,  and 
spend  money,  any  more  than  you  are  meant  to  make  it,  and 
cry  peace  where  there  is  no  peace.  If  a  woman  cannot  do 
much  herself,  she  can  honour  and  love  a  man  who  can." 

He  turned  to  her,  and  bent  over  her,  and  kissed  her  fore 

N  N 


546  TOM   BKOAVN   AT   OXFOliD. 

head,  and  kiss  jJ  lier  lips.  She  looked  up  with  sparkling  eyes 
and  said — 

'•  Am  I  not  right,  dear  1 " 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,  and  I  have  been  false  to  my  creed. 
You  have  taken  a  load  off  my  heart,  dearest.  Henceforth 
there  shall  be  biit  one  mind  and  one  soul  between  us.  You 
have  made  me  feel  what  it  is  that  a  man  wants,  what  is  the 
help  that  is  meet  for  him." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  kissed  her  again ;  and  then 
rose  up,  for  there  was  something  within  him  hke  a  moving  of 
new  life,  which  lifted  him,  and  set  him  on  his  feet.  And  he 
stood  with  kindling  brow,  gazing  into  the  autumn  air,  as  his 
heart  went  sorrowing,  but  hopefully  "  Borrowing,  back  through 
all  the  faultful  past."  And  she  sat  on  at  first,  and  watched 
his  face ;  and  neither  spoke  nor  moved  for  some  minutes. 
Then  she  ruse  too,  and  stood  by  his  side  : — 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 
And  round  Jier  waist  she  felt  it  fold  ; 

And  bo  across  the  liills  they  went, 
In  tliat  new  world  which  is  the  old. 

Yes,  that  new  world,  through  the  golden  gates  of  which  they 
had  passed  together,  which  is  the  old,  old  world  after  all,  and 
nothing  else.  The  same  old  and  new  world  it  was  to  our 
fathers  and  mothers  as  it  is  to  us,  and  shall  be  to  our  children 
— a  world  clear  and  bright,  and  ever  becoming  clearer  and 
brighter  to  the  humble,  and  true,  and  pure  of  heart,  to  every 
man  and  woman  who  will  live  in  it  as  the  children  of  the 
Maker  and  Lord  of  it,  their  Father.  To  them,  and  to  them 
alone,  is  that  world,  old  and  new,  given,  and  all  that  is  in  it, 
fully  and  freely  io  enjoy.  All  others  but  these  are  occupyin^j 
where  they  have  no  title  ;  "  they  are  sowing  much,  but  bring- 
ing in  little  ;  they  eat,  but  have  not  enough  ;  they  drink,  but 
are  not  filled  with  di'ink ;  they  clothe  themselves,  but  there 
is  none  warm ;  and  he  of  them  who  earneth  wages  earnetb 
wages  to  put  them  into  a  bag  with  holes."  But  these  hav"! 
the  world  and  all  things  for  a  rightful  and  rich  inlieritance  ; 
for  they  hold  them  as  dear  children  of  Him  in  whose  hand  it 
and  they  are  lying,  and  no  power  in  earth  or  hell  shall  pluck 
them  out  of  their  Father's  hand. 


LONDON  :    R.    CLAY,    SONS,    AND   TAYLOR,    IIUICAD   STUlCbT   HIIX. 


.RY    DIGEST. 


[April  4,  1896 


DEATH   OF  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "TOM  BROWN'S 
SCHOOL-DAYS." 

'T^HE  death  of  Judge  Thomas  Hughes,  which  occurred  at 
■•-  Brighton,  England,  on  the  23d  of  March,  awakens  deep 
regret  in  this  country  as  well  as  in  his  own.  He  was  born  in 
Uffington,  Berkshire,  England,  October  20,  1823.  In  1833  he  en- 
tered Rugby,  under  Dr.  Thomas  Arnold.  Here  he  studied  till 
the  time  came  for  him  to  matriculate  at  Oxford,  which  he  did  at 
Oriel  College.  He  took  his  degree  of  B.A.  there  in  1845.  Judge 
Hughes's  reputation  as  an  author  rests  chiefly  upon  his  two 
stories  descriptive  of  life  at  Rugby  and  at  Oxford,  the  first  and 

most  popular  work  being 
"Tom  Brown's  School- 
Days,  by  an  Old  Boy " 
(1857),  followed  by  "Tom 
Brown  at  Oxford"  (1861). 
Both  books  have  become 
classics  in  the  department 
of  boys'  literature.  Altho 
both  are  believed  to  be  au- 
tobiographic, Mr.  Hughes 
is  i^aid  to  have  declared 
that  Tom  Brown  was  in- 
tended as  a  portrait  of 
Dean  Stanley.  The  Trib- 
une says : 

"To  the  men  who  were 

boys  twenty-five  or  thirty 

years  ago  no  name  has  a 

pleasanter  sound  than  that 

of  'Tom'  Hughes,  as  they 

all  called  him    when    they 

t  identify  him  with  his  most  famous  character  and  call  him 

Irown.'     The   adventures  of  an  ingenuous  English  boy  at 

under  the  care  of  that  beloved  master.  Dr.  Arnold,  and 

.ardatthe  university  in  the  days  when   rowing  Avas  at  its 

|h,  were  read  with  unmixed  delight.     They  were  even  more 

'  "tive  to  American  boys  than  to  English  lads.     There  was  the 

ic  atmosphere  of  distance  and  the  glamour  of  a  school  and 

v?  system  such    as    was  unknown   in  this  country.     The 

\  the  fights  in  the  ring  for  principle,  of  the  struggles  on 


lOMAS    HUGHES,    AUTHOR    OF   ' 
BROWN'S  SCHOOL  DAYS." 


546  TOM  BROWN  AT   OXFOKD. 

head,  and  kiss  kI  her  lips.  She  looked  up  with  sparkling  eyes 
and  said — 

"  Am  I  not  right,  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,  and  I  have  been  false  to  my  creed. 
You  have  taken  a  load  off  my  heart,  dearest.  Henceforth 
there  shall  be  but  one  mind  and  one  soul  between  us.  You 
liave  made  me  feel  what  it  is  that  a  man  wants,  what  is  the 
help  that  is  meet  for  him." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  kissed  her  again ;  and  then 
rose  up,  for  there  was  something  within  him  hke  a  moving  of 
new  life,  which  lifted  him,  and  set  him  on  his  feet.  And  he 
stood  with  kindling  brow,  gazing  into  the  autumn  air,  as  his 
heart  went  sorrowing,  but  hopefully  "  Borrowing,  back  through 
all  the  faultful  past."  And  she  sat  on  at  first,  and  watched 
his  face ;  and  neither  spoke  nor  moved  for  some  minutes. 
Then  she  ruse  too,  and  stood  by  his  side  : — 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 
And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold  ; 

And  so  across  the  hills  they  went, 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old. 

Yes,  that  new  world,  through  the  golden  gates  of  which  they 
had  passed  together,  which  is  the  old,  old  world  after  all,  and 
nothing  else.  The  same  old  and  new  world  it  was  to  our 
fathers  and  mothers  as  it  is  to  us,  and  shall  be  to  our  children 
— a  world  clear  and  bright,  and  ever  becoming  clearer  and 
brighter  to  the  humble,  and  true,  and  pure  of  heart,  to  every 
man  and  woman  who  will  live  in  it  as  the  children  of  the 
Maker  and  Lord  of  it,  their  Father.  To  them,  and  to  them 
alone,  is  that  world,  old  and  new,  given,  and  all  that  is  in  it, 
fully  and  freely  to  enjoy.  All  others  but  these  are  occupying 
where  they  have  no  title  ;  "  they  are  sowing  much,  but  bring- 
ing in  little  ;  they  eat,  but  have  not  enough  ;  they  drink,  but 
are  not  filled  with  drink ;  they  clothe  themselves,  but  there 
is  none  warm ;  and  he  of  them  who  earneth  wages  earnetb 
wages  to  put  them  into  a  bag  with  holes."  But  these  hav  ^ 
the  world  and  all  things  for  a  rightful  and  rich  inheritance ; 
for  they  hold  them  as  dear  children  of  Him  in  whose  hand  it 
and  they  are  lying,  and  no  power  in  earth  or  hell  shall  pluck 
them  out  of  their  Father's  hand. 


THR    END. 


LONDON  :  R.  CLAY,  SONS,  AND  TAYLOR,  BKLAD  STRLtT  HILL. 


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■Ihe  Beautiful  Wretch  :  Tlie  Four 

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J^E:   A   Tale  of   the   Siege   of 

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